Miscommunication
by SalR
Summary: Another take on the how-they-met-at-the-Academy story. This version is inspired by the wonderfully combative Farragut scene in the movie. Fireworks, anybody? ;
1. Chapter 1

_Miscommunication_

by

Sal R

1. _Ritishaya_ - _n_. dislike

The room was noisy and inadequately lit.

Bodies were crushed around the edges, voices raised, and laughter grated through the air. Music pounded in an unvarying beat that reverberated through the soles of his boots, and in the centre of the room people danced, without form or any apparent coordination. Certainly without any grace. The air was pleasantly warm, but thick with human perspiration, and politeness, only, kept him from holding a hand over his nose.

Had Vulcan theology created a mythological Hell – a place of eternal suffering – Spock imagined that it would have resembled _Cochrane's_ bar on a Saturday night.

A shoulder slammed into his back, causing him to take a step forward.

"Sorry, mate, I— Oh." The cadet – clearly intoxicated – made an effort to stand to attention. "Commander."

He held a glass bottle in one hand. Its content, having sloshed out over his hand, was now dripping onto the floor. Spock imagined that the rest was seeping into the back of his jacket. "I am looking for Captain Pike," he said, by way of an answer. "Is he here?"

"Pike?" The cadet blinked and squinted around the room. Then he waved the bottle toward the other side of the dancers. "Over there, Commander, near the bar."

Spock followed his direction and saw the Captain half hidden among a group of people on the far side of the room. He would have to make his way through the crowd in order to reach him. It was an unpleasant prospect, but because his unease was disproportionate to the challenge, Spock dismissed the irritation he felt toward Captain Pike and instead slid a glance toward the cadet. "Edwards, I look forward to receiving your paper on Normative Theory in Interspecies Ethics tomorrow morning."

Edwards' eyebrows shot up. "_You're_ grading my paper?"

"I have taken over Captain Ife's class in his absence." He raised an eyebrow. "I trust that your grandmother has recovered – again – and that you will not exceed the substantial extension you were granted."

"Yes, sir," he stammered. "I mean, no, sir."

It was clear the paper had yet to be written, and Edwards, Spock suspected, would shortly be departing Starfleet Academy.

Turning away, he fixed his attention on Pike and began to force a path through the crowd. The tawdry displays of excitement, hedonism, and desire that humans barely seemed to notice were offensive to his Vulcan sensibilities, and he deliberately strengthened his mental barriers to keep from being buffeted by the undisciplined emotions that beat, louder than the music, against his mind.

Not for the first time, he silently cursed Captain Pike's peculiar sense of humor.

Despite his best endeavors, however, it was impossible to maneuver through the crowded bar without unwelcome proximity to the revelers; the animated flashes from their overheated minds left him tense and irritable by the time he eventually reached Christopher Pike's side.

"Captain," he said, and was forced to repeat himself, twice, before Pike turned around.

"Spock!" The captain grinned and slapped him on the arm. "You made it."

He lifted an eyebrow. "Self evidently."

"What are you drinking?"

"I am not—"

"Let me buy you a drink, man!" Pike pushed forward, leaning across the bar, and spoke into the barman's ear. A moment later he turned around and held out a glass containing a small amount of tawny liquid. "There, Scotch. One taste and you'll wonder how you ever lived without it."

Spock let his gaze drift around the room, across the alcohol-befuddled faces, then back to the drink in his hand. He sniffed, and couldn't help recoiling. "I hardly know how I've endured the deprivation."

"To the _Enterprise_!" Pike said, knocking his glass against Spock's. "And her new crew."

"The _Enterprise_." He lifted his glass, but did not let the liquid touch his lips before lowering it again.

Among the dancers a disturbance had broken out – one cadet, sweaty blond hair plastered to his head, was now shirtless and performing a lewd dance with an Orion female. Their cohort looked on, cheering and clapping and laughing.

This, Spock imagined, was everything his father despised about Starfleet Academy. And yet here he was, in the midst of it, and Sarek was powerless to call him away; the thought was more satisfying than it should have been, and his enjoyment of it was tinged with guilt. Nevertheless, enjoy it he did.

Pike nudged his arm to get his attention. "So, Spock, they've got you teaching for the last few months, huh? How's that going?"

Considering his answer, Spock glanced once more toward the dancers. "I had forgotten how frivolous cadets could be."

Pike laughed, swallowing it with his Scotch. "They're young and stupid. We all were."

Spock raised an eyebrow, but did not comment.

"Oh come on!" The captain's smile was wide, pupils slightly dilated; evidently this was not his first drink. "Surely you did _something_ stupid back then."

He respected Christopher Pike, had served with him for a number of years, yet still the man failed to understand the most basic truth about him. "There are many," he said, with care, "who consider joining Starfleet to be my greatest act of stupidity."

Pike's face sobered. "You don't agree, I hope."

"I do not." He glanced again at the writhing dancers. "However, I believe my youthful rebellion was of a more significant nature than indulging in frequent intoxication and the subsequent acts of public lewdness."

"Public lewdness?" Pike shook his head. "Spock… There's a lot of talent here, some promising young officers. Look." He waved his drink toward a cluster of students at the end of a bar. "See that kid? With the curly hair? Chekol, Checkout— something. Seventeen years old. Seventeen! You should see him on the transporter consol." Pike waggled his fingers. "Like lightning. And over there," he lowered his voice, "look, sitting there just down the bar… See her?"

Spock looked. "Lieutenant Uhura?"

"That's right – tracking for communications officer and graduating this year. An amazing ear for language." He cast Spock a sidelong glance. "She speaks Vulcan like a native."

"Her Vulcan is technically correct," he conceded, "but she does not speak it like a native." He glanced at her. She was staring into the middle distance, as if watching the dancers, though her features seemed peculiarly rigid and intent. "Her manner of expression is overly emotional."

"Overly emotional?" Pike swallowed another mouthful of his drink.

"Imprecise," Spock said by way of explanation. "Almost… Romulan."

Uhura turned her face away, the movement sudden enough that he heard the soft clatter of the beads woven into her finely braided hair. It occurred to him that she may have overheard his comment, despite the music, but given that he had said nothing inaccurate he felt no regret. His critique was valid.

"You know what?" Pike said, draining his drink, "I'm glad I didn't have to pass any of your classes, Spock. I'd never have graduated."

"That is highly unlikely, I—" He stopped, distracted, as Uhura walked past them toward the dancers. There was a pleasant grace about her movement, but it was the expression on her face that caught his attention; her eyes glittered and her lips appeared to be fighting a smile.

She was laughing.

She was laughing at him.

She wove her way through the dancers, inserting herself between the sweating young man and the Orion girl, and murmured something in her ear. There was laughter, eyes darting in his direction and rapidly averted, then more laughter.

Spock's back stiffened, his fingers tightening about his glass. He was aware that he, in a position of authority, must occasionally suffer the displeasure of lower ranks. He was aware that his fierce surge of anger did not originate with the cadet's disrespect, but that it was rooted in a lifetime of scorn at the hands of those whose approval he had most wanted – and had never received. He was aware that to harbor resentment against her would be illogical.

Yet, as he watched the cadets' laughter, he could not help but hear other voices – mocking, teasing, dismissive voices – and he felt an anger he could not quell.

He decided that he did not like Lieutenant Uhura.

***

"Her Vulcan is technically accurate," Nyota mimicked as she slid into a chair around the crowded table, "but she does not speak it like a native."

Edwards snorted into his drink. "The pointy eared bastard – he fails everyone. You know what he said about my binary logic paper? 'On Vulcan, a child of ten would have a better grasp of the blah blah whatever'. Superior sonofabitch."

"It's a good job he doesn't teach Vulcan, then," Nyota sighed.

Gaila – always the peacemaker – said, "He probably didn't mean to be rude. I don't think Vulcans go in for flattery, you know? Stuff like that doesn't bother them – they don't get upset like we do." She cast a glance at Edwards. "And I know you were still writing that paper ten minutes before the deadline, so..."

Nyota glanced back toward the bar, toward Captain Pike. The commander was gone, but the damage had already been done and she felt a rising wave of despair. Letting her head sink down she banged it against the table. "Why did he have to be talking to Pike? Why?"

"Oh come on," Gaila put a hand on her back. "It's not going to have any effect on your commission. They're going to look at your academic record, not what some guy says in a bar!"

"You don't know that," Nyota sighed. "And, anyway, he's not 'some guy' – he's Pike's ExO. Of course he listens to him."

Gaila gave her an odd look. "You know a lot about him."

"I know a lot about everyone connected with the _Enterprise._ Life doesn't unfold by chance, Gaila – if there's something you want you have to make it happen."

"You're scary," Edwards said, draining his beer. "Freaky."

She cast him a hard look. "Don't you have a paper to write?"

"I've got, like, eight hours..."

Eight hours until class. Nyota glanced at her watch; it was time to go. She stood up. "I'm gonna turn in."

"The party's just starting!" Gaila protested. "Come on, first night back...?"

"Don't wake me up when you come in."

"The language labs are closed!" Gaila called after her as she made her way toward the door. "You can't practice your Vulcan!"

Nyota ignored her and pushed on through the crowd, glad to step out into the cool night. She paused there a moment, drew in a breath of clean air and let it fill her lungs. All around her the city raised its arms, reaching up to the stars. Only a few were visible amid so much light, but that didn't matter because the star she really wanted to see would be along any moment and was too bright to miss. Moving away from the bar and the noise spilling through its door, she crossed the quad and stood on the grass; it was dewy and the moisture seeped through her thin shoes and chilled her feet. She liked it, liked the feeling of being rooted as she gazed up and waited.

_There_.

It appeared about thirty-five degrees above the horizon, blinking into existence, and travelled rapidly across the sky and over her head – the Fleet Yards, where _Enterprise_ had docked two weeks earlier, awaiting her final outfitting. In six months she would make her maiden voyage, and Nyota Uhura intended to be on board. Whatever it took.

2. _Pahutau_ – _adj._ agitate; disturb; to arouse interest by use of written or spoken word; debate

Commander Spock was well aware of the irony inherent in the ritual of his morning meditation. It had been a bone of contention during his childhood, his father insisting on the practice and Spock resisting, preferring instead to run out into the desert around Shi'Kahr and enjoy the meditative effect of physical exertion.

Yet, since joining Starfleet, he had observed that Vulcan rituals had come to hold more significance in his life; he was, he realized, defining himself as Vulcan because he could not define himself as human. Therein lay the irony – he felt more Vulcan on Earth than he had ever done on his home planet.

However, this morning, meditation eluded him.

The encounter in _Cochrane's _bar lingered, unsettling matters at the root of his psyche. Spock did not enjoy being mocked.

Flashes of memory escaped his control – the feel of his fist on another's face, the taste of blood, of vengeance. The shame of his failure remained, but so did the illicit joy he felt in shocking them, in snubbing them.

_No Vulcan has ever turned down a place at this Academy. _

He smiled. It was not a good sign.

Resigning himself to failure, he rose to his feet and snuffed the lamp. "Reduce window opacity to five percent."

Sunlight flooded into his quarters, the sky a vivid alien blue. Outside, all was quiet and he felt a sudden longing for that peace. There was a path next to the waterfront where he had often run as an undergraduate, beating out the complexities of human interactions against the hard gray pavement and gazing out over the vast expanse of water that, even now, was disturbing to his Vulcan eyes. He would run there today, to quell with exertion those feelings that meditation could not resolve.

He would feel his blood burn, and use the heat to scour away his anger and restore him to calm.

***

They gymnasium only had sonic showers and Nyota hated them. It was typical of San Francisco – of the whole North American continent! They were obsessed with technology. The place was surrounded by water, it seemed to rain every day, and yet Starfleet insisted on the high-tec option even when low-tec was preferable. She sometimes wondered how long it would be before they dispensed with communication officers entirely, relying on a computer to interpret the subtleties of subspace communication and alien languages.

At least the computer would have the right accent.

She dressed quickly, still chewing over the insult of the previous night. The sonic shower had done nothing to cool her down after her workout, and that only fed her foul temper. How dare he critique her performance when he had never even taught her; how dare he critique it in front of Captain Pike!

…_almost Romulan._

"Arrogant bastard." He had no right.

Hoisting her gym bag over her shoulder, she went in search of breakfast. That didn't improve her mood; despite almost four years at the Academy she still wasn't used to the American penchant for cheese. On everything. What she wouldn't give for a _mandaazi_ to go with her coffee – or a cup of _chai_ to clear her head. She had to settle for a limp fruit salad and yogurt.

It being the first day of the semester, tutorial groups were being allocated and she checked the messages on her PADD as she ate. She'd completed the last of her compulsory classes the previous semester, and now only had to catch up on a couple of requirements – one of which was interspecies ethics. She was looking forward to it, but as she glanced down the list she almost choked on her yogurt.

_Uhura, Nyota: group 7e – instructor, Commander Spock._

"Damn it." She threw her PADD down on the table, drawing a couple of curious stares from the other diners. Nyota ignored them.

This day was going from bad to worse.

***

It was an unfortunate coincidence, Spock decided as he read the list of the names in his tutorial group. However, he had endured more challenging situations in the past and refused to be affected by her inclusion in the group. According to her academic transcript she was an outstanding student, and would no doubt make an excellent contribution to the class. He did not dwell on the laughter in her eyes; there was no reason to suppose the insult would be repeated.

When he entered the room at two minutes to nine his supposition was confirmed. There was no laughter in Lieutenant Uhura's eyes; they were cold and distant and met him with defiance. He paused, taken aback, then turned to the rest of the group. "Good morning."

"Sir," they replied, standing and coming to attention.

"At ease," he said and took his seat at the head of the table. He glanced down at his PADD, running his eyes over their names. "Three tracking for command, two for science, and one for communications." He did not look at Uhura. "This class will be beneficial to you all..." He chose a name at random from the list. "Verdugo, define the single issue at the heart of interspecies ethics."

Verdugo, a serious-looking young man, frowned. "Moral relativism, sir?"

"Precisely. Please expand."

"Moral relativism is the degree to which we accept the actions of other species, despite the fact that they conflict with our own ideas of right and wrong."

"And the degree to which we don't." The interjection came from Uhura, and Spock was forced to turn his eye on her. There was no mistaking the challenge in her eyes. "Moral relativism can only go so far."

"So far?" He lifted an eyebrow. "That is an imprecise measure. How far is 'so far', Cadet? And, more importantly, who is to make that determination?"

"We are."

"We? Humans?"

"Not just humans – the Federation. There are rules of engagement, the rights of the individual are protected by law – we already have the legal framework." She folded her hands before her on the desk; he noticed tension in the way her fingers curled together. "We measure other species by that standard."

"You assert that the body of law enacted by the Federation is a moral absolute, furthermore you assert that it is our role – our right, perhaps – to judge other species against that absolute standard of morality." He turned in his chair, so he might observe her more closely. "You are in error."

"I dispute that, Commander."

"Logically, there can be no moral absolute; morality is always a subjective judgment."

She turned her eyes in his direction; there was no laughter, but they glittered nonetheless. "I believe that is a statement only a Vulcan would make, sir."

He found himself roused, as if for a fight, his pulse accelerating. "I infer from that statement that you believe moral judgment to be governed by an emotional response, in which case you undermine your own argument – it is, inherently, a subjective judgment and therefore cannot be an absolute principle."

Her eyes narrowed, lips pressing together. "Some things are simply wrong, that's all."

"Such as taking a life."

"That's one."

"It is likely, Lieutenant, that in your service to Starfleet you will be asked to take the life of another being. Is that wrong?"

"That—" She looked away. "It is wrong, but it can't be helped."

"Then there is no absolute prohibition on the taking of life?"

A muscle in her jaw tightened and her chin dipped, accentuating the elegance of her neck. "In most circumstances—"

"Most is not all," he felt a jab of satisfaction at his victory. "It cannot, therefore, be a moral _absolute_."

Uhura did not reply and a silence fell over the group. It was only then that Spock realized the discussion had excluded the rest of the class; he turned his head and felt a momentary surprise, as if waking from a dream, to see the other students staring at him. He cleared his throat, oddly discomposed. "McIntyre, how do you—?"

"Failing to adhere to a moral absolute," Uhura interrupted, "doesn't imply that the ideal is imperfect – only that our behavior falls short of our own expectation." She smiled, a blinding flash of triumph. "Your point doesn't hold, Commander. Morality _is_ absolute, it's humanity that's flawed."

He considered her point, finding it unusually difficult to concentrate with those eyes fixed on him as though he were a specimen laid out for examination. "I believe," he said at last, "that is a statement only a human would make."

His concession provoked another smile, and she folded her arms across her chest in a gesture that clearly spoke of victory. Nyota Uhura, he noted, was one of the most combative students of his acquaintance.

He found the challenge refreshing.

Unexpectedly so.

***

Captain Nula Healy's office was large, overlooking the green expanse of the campus and the glittering blue of San Francisco Bay. It was a place of calm and reflection, crammed with mementos of her travels and with a scent that reminded Nyota of home – warm, comforting. Sandalwood, perhaps. Or maybe it was the Captain herself who reminded Nyota of her mother's no-nonsense practicality, tinged with that bright flare for adventure that Nyota had inherited.

Whatever the reason, she loved being in her supervisor's office. She felt comfortable here, valued.

This afternoon, Captain Healy sat in one of the deep armchairs with a mug in one hand and the Nyota's dissertation in the other. She nodded as she sipped her tea, murmured the occasional commendation, and eventually looked up. There were wrinkles around her eyes and mouth, but somehow they did not make her look old – to Nyota's mind they were testament to a life well lived and she hoped that one day she would look exactly the same.

"This is excellent work," Healy said, lowering her PADD. "I'm extremely impressed, Nyota – even by your own standard, this is exceptional."

She beamed, and felt as though her face might split with the grin. "Thank you."

"Send me your final draft before you submit – you're advanced enough that you can afford the time, and I'd like to make some comments."

"I appreciate that, thank you." She hesitated a moment before plunging on. "Captain, there was something I wanted to ask you."

Healy took another sip of tea. "Go on."

"I was wondering… I'd really like to apply to present my thesis at the Multidisciplinary Graduate Conference this year."

"This year?" Healy didn't hide her surprise. "You're not a graduate yet, Nyota."

"I know, but I think my thesis is good enough and I really want—"

"—the _Enterprise_. Yes, I know." Healy's eyes crinkled as she smiled. "Well I can't fault your ambition, Nyota, but you have to know it's a long shot. There are some excellent candidates."

"I understand that," she said. "I just want to give it a shot."

Healy sighed. "And how can I say no to that?"

"Really?" Nyota beamed. "You'll let me try?"

"I'll forward your application along with the rest," she said, "but I'm warning you not to get your hopes up. We have some extremely able grad students."

Nyota nodded, but in truth let the warning sail past. If she could present at the MGC it would almost guarantee her a place on the _Enterprise_…

"However..." Healy continued, looking at her over the rim of her mug. "I'd like you to also consider another option."

There _was_ no other option, but Nyota kept that thought to herself and said, "What do you mean?"

"I know you're not interested in teaching at the Academy, but there's no doubt that acting as a teaching assistant in your senior year would complement your record." She waved a hand toward her almost-complete dissertation and said, "You have the time, Nyota, and – I believe – the expertise."

"Teaching assistants are usually grad students..."

"As always, Nyota, you're the exception. And the class I have in mind..." She picked up a printout, handing it over. "I believe you're as qualified as any graduate to assist."

She glanced down at the paper and smiled. "Advanced Phonology."

"Your dissertation itself," Nula said, "would more than cover the class, and I think you would find the experience beneficial."

"Yes, I'd be very interested – thank you."

"Excellent." The captain stood, leaving her tea balanced on the arm of her chair, and moved over to her computer. "I'll advance your name to Commander Spock for his approval and—"

"Commander Spock?" The exclamation slipped out too fast to bite back.

Healy lifted her gaze, fixed it on Nyota. "He's taking the class this semester, after Commander Ife was transferred to the _Endeavour_. Is that a problem?"

"I—"

"Nyota?" Healy straightened, brow furrowing.

"He's— I'm afraid we have something of a personality clash."

The captain's expression sharpened. "Starfleet officers don't have that luxury, Lieutenant."

The reprimand was mild, but there nonetheless. Nyota straightened. "Yes, sir."

With a sigh, Healy walked back around her desk and came to perch on the arm of her chair. "Commander Spock can appear somewhat distant, especially on first acquaintance. His manner is..."

"Condescending and superior?"

There was a twist to Healy's lips that looked almost like a smile being swallowed. "As a student of xenolinguistics, you should be well aware of the impact of cultural difference on the ability for different races to effectively communicate."

It was a fair point and Nyota felt herself chastened. "Yes, I know. It's just—"

"For all his similarities, remember that Commander Spock is living in an alien culture. If he occasionally missteps, it's our duty to forgive, as we'd expect to be forgiven on his home world."

She snorted a soft laugh. "Vulcans don't seem very forgiving."

"You'd better thicken your hide, Nyota," Nula said, returning to her computer. "You're going to encounter species a whole lot less forgiving – or comprehensible – than Vulcans." She tapped her screen. "I'm transferring your transcript to Commander Spock, with my recommendation. He'll contact you directly if he's interested in your application."

"Then I won't hold my breath."

"Goodness," Healy laughed. "What did he do to offend you, Nyota?"

"Nothing, I'm sorry." She rose to her feet. "Thank you, Captain, for this – I really appreciate your faith in me."

"You earned it." Healy sat behind her desk. "And try opening your mind a little, Nyota – you never know what you might learn, hmm?"

She made no answer, save coming to attention.

"Get out of here." The captain waved a lazy hand. "See you in three weeks."

"Yes, sir."

And she was gone.

3. _Paikaya_ – _n._ a state of agitation, confusion, or excitement

The rising sun was lost behind the city's buildings, its light flat and pale, but the sea was still dark and the far horizon clung to the stars. The air was cool, though promising warmth, and the footpath was empty.

Spock ran.

His body had long been used to Earth's light gravity, but his muscles were shaped for Vulcan's fierce pull and when he ran, he made them remember. He ran fast, until his breath came in swift gasps and his legs began to burn. He ran until his mind was blank, fixed on nothing but the way ahead and the need for oxygen.

Then, when he could run no more, he slowed to a ground-eating lope and let his pulse drop, his breathing even out – let the world encroach upon his thoughts once more.

His calm evaporated like morning mist.

The request had come the previous day, waiting for him upon his return to his quarters, and it had disturbed his equilibrium more than it should.

Nyota Uhura. Again.

He respected Captain Healy, and there was no doubt that Uhura's mind was sharp; her academic transcript would have spoken for itself, even without his previous observations. She was an excellent candidate for the position of his assistant, and yet he found himself hesitating.

He slowed to a halt, stretching his muscles. The air blew cool across his face, and he realized he had broken a sweat. His instinct was to wipe it away, but he refused to indulge the desire. On Vulcan this manifestation of his hybrid physiology had been shameful, had granted lethal ammunition to those who reviled him, but on Earth it went unnoticed – it was normal. To view it as anything less was to internalize the abhorrent views that he had rejected in his father's people.

So he did not wipe the sweat from his face, instead he drew in a deep breath and turned around, casting his eye over the Academy buildings in the far distance. He did not wish to return, for his mind was not yet clear, so he set off at a walk.

It was time to consider the matter in hand, and to reach a conclusion regarding Nyota Uhura.

There was no logical reason to reject her as his teaching assistant, so it followed that the reason he hesitated was illogical. The implication, therefore, was that its root was an emotional response, requiring further examination.

She had laughed at him, among her friends. This had touched upon memories of his childhood, when he had been similarly mocked by his peers, triggering feelings of anger and isolation. That much he knew and, having rationalized it, those feelings could be easily controlled; it would be highly irrational to refuse to work with her because she had inadvertently reminded him of an unpleasant aspect of his childhood. And yet…

He well remembered her countenance as they debated in class, the flash of challenge in her eyes and the defiant set of her jaw. It had felt like sparring in the gymnasium, exhilarating if occasionally painful, and he wasn't sure if she had been laughing at him still.

Nyota Uhura made him uncomfortable in ways he could not adequately explain. It was profoundly disturbing.

"Morning, Commander."

The greeting came from a red-faced cadet pounding along in the opposite direction, and Spock answered with a nod. There were more people around now, and because he had no desire for conversation he broke into an easy run. But the rhythm seemed to tap out her name in his head and he knew that serenity would elude him unless he made a decision.

Nyota Uhura. Nyota Uhura…

He would speak with her, assess her suitability and interest. If she proved satisfactory, he would offer her the position.

There, it was done.

He drew in a deep breath and ran on, her name pounding in his ears.

***

Nyota examined herself in the mirror, determined to be perfect. Her hair was pulled back into an efficient pony tail, her uniform pressed and spotless.

"Who are you out to impress?" Gaila was lounging in bed, making the most of Saturday morning.

Nyota cast her a look. "Commander Spock."

"You're kidding." She yawned and shook her mass of tangled hair. "Why?"

Despite everything, Nyota couldn't suppress a little pride as she said, "I'm interviewing to be his TA in the Advanced Phonology class."

Gaila's eyes went wide. "No way! How come?"

"Captain Healy recommended me; it'll look fantastic on my transcript. It's that kind of added responsibility that helps, you know?"

"Do you get extra points for working with Mr. Hypercritical?"

Nyota smiled. "For interspecies cooperation, perhaps?"

"Hey, I'm all for that, but this is above and beyond." Gaila climbed out of bed and ambled to the window, looking down into the quad. "Is there anything you _wouldn't_ do to get posted to the Enterprise?"

"Not a lot," Nyota acknowledged, picking up her bag. She glanced back at Gaila, still staring out the window. "I'm heading to the library after, so won't be back 'til late."

A slow smiled slipped onto her friend's face, but her eyes were all innocence when she turned around. "Okay. Have fun."

"You going to tell me who this guy is?"

Gaila shook her head. "You wouldn't approve."

"Naturally." She sighed. "Just— Be careful, okay? Don't let yourself get dragged into another whole…_thing_, not with finals coming up."

Gaila pressed her hands together, an Orion promise. "Get going. You'll be late."

The campus was empty this early on a Saturday, and Nyota made herself walk at an unhurried pace across the quad toward the computer science department; she was determined to retain her composure in the face of so much Vulcan inscrutability.

The Schickard building gleamed white, bright against the grey city beyond. The first time she'd entered its cool hallways had been the day of her interview for a place at the Academy, and, as she reached its sweeping steps, she felt that same nervous fist clenched in the pit of her stomach.

Despite Captain Healy's confidence, Nyota hadn't really believed the commander would consider her for the position – there had to be qualified grad students who Spock knew better. If, that was, he really knew anyone at all. Stand-offish didn't begin to cover it. Maybe no one else _wanted_ the post?

She climbed the steps and entered the building, consulting the floor plan to locate his office on the third floor. She was ten minutes early, so decided to take the stairs to kill some time.

The stairs opened up onto a corridor with windows along one wall and offices along the other. All the doors were closed, bar one. Her nerves returned, pulse rate jumping. Suddenly she realized how much she wanted this post, wanted to see it on the transcript that would soon be under Captain Pike's nose. And she wasn't oblivious to the fact that earning Spock's good opinion might definitely count in her favor. He might be arrogant and condescending, but she'd wring an endorsement out of him if it killed her.

With purposeful strides, she approached his office and, since the door was open, stepped inside.

It was empty, and surprisingly cluttered.

She turned around and went back out into the corridor just in time to see the elevator door open and Commander Spock himself step out. Cursing herself, she waited for him to approach. There was something predatory in his long-limbed stride, and he stopped some distance away and regarded her for a moment before saying, "I was unaware you were acquainted with Commander Harper."

Nyota blinked. "I'm sorry, sir, who?"

"Commander Harper." He made a slight gesture with his head toward the office. "You were in his office."

Teeth gritted, she felt the heat rise to her face. "I thought— My apologies, I thought it was your office, sir."

There was a pause, a brief glint of something in his eyes. "Individual offices are distinguished by a simple numerical sequence, Cadet." He turned and placed his hand on the identification pad on his door. "Mine is number thirty-one."

She bit her tongue and walked toward him. "I wasn't paying attention."

"Evidently."

Swallowing a retort she followed him into his office. It was as spartan as she'd expected. "I apologize for my tardiness," he said, taking a seat behind his empty desk. "I was…delayed this morning."

Nyota remained standing. "I believe I was early."

"Please sit down, Lieutenant." He tapped his screen, studied it, then said, "I reviewed your dissertation last night."

She paused, half way to perching on the edge of the chair opposite him. "You read the whole thing last night?"

"Your speculation on the use of phonotactics in the interpretive translation of new languages was fascinating."

"Thank you," she said, sitting down and failing to hide her surprised smile.

"But the section on prosody was given too much weight in the overall thesis; the over reliance on prosody is, naturally, a very human bias."

Her surprise faded, replaced by irritation. "Whereas your bias is clearly very Vulcan." He glanced up and she added a belated, "Sir."

"It is my endeavor to avoid any such bias," he said, coolly. "However I can only offer my opinion – it will be down to others to judge the overall merit of your work."

She said nothing, afraid that her temper might get the better of her. She'd not asked for his opinion and she didn't want it. He wasn't even a linguist! He was a science officer, filling in for Commander Ife. And if Nula Healy – Professor of Linguistics – said her dissertation was excellent, then her dissertation was excellent. She didn't need his approbation.

The commander leaned back in his chair and regarded her; it was a difficult gaze to endure, incisive and critical. She struggled not to look away and in the end it was Spock who broke the contact. He rose, turning to gaze out of the window with his hands clasped behind his back. "May I ask a personal query?"

"Yes, sir."

"I have worked with many humans during my time at the Academy, and I have observed that some find my Vulcan nature difficult to accept." He paused, and she watched his fingers clench in a manner that suggested more emotion than his cold voice betrayed. "If you are such a person, assuming a role as my teaching assistant would prove unsatisfactory to us both."

The suggestion was outrageous and insulting. "I can assure you, sir, that I have no problem with your Vulcan nature."

"And yet you have, twice, accused me of exhibiting a Vulcan bias in my reasoning."

"Because you've accused me of human bias!" Her exclamation echoed in the silent office and she winced; the interview was sliding out of control like a runner sprinting downhill. Drawing in a breath, she collected herself and said, "Prosody is discouraged in Vulcan. Too much tonality in spoken Vulcan is considered…crass. If one were being unkind, one might even say it sounded Romulan."

His back stiffened, it was a subtle gesture – a tightening of his shoulders – but Nyota was as skilled in reading body language as any other form of communication; she had surprised him. "You are referring to my comment to Captain Pike last week, that you apparently overheard in Cochrane's bar." He turned, fixing her with a penetrating look. "That is the root of your antagonism toward me."

"I don't— That's not—" Damn him! The denial wouldn't come. As soon as he'd said the words, she'd known that they were true. Feeling ridiculous, she stared out the window and into the bright blue morning. "I felt your assessment was unjust, sir."

There was an ironic curve of his lips as he returned to his desk and sat down. "The human ego," he said, "is a fragile thing."

"Whereas the Vulcan ego is far more robust. I imagine it can rarely be dented."

There was an irritated flare in his eyes – a remarkably human expression – and it seemed that he was going to respond in kind, but at the last moment he turned away and studied his computer. After a pause, he said, "If you wish to perfect your spoken Vulcan, I am willing to offer my assistance." When he looked at her again his expression was entirely neutral. In Vulcan he said, "We can converse, thus, as we collaborate on the phonology class."

She stared. "You're offering me the post?"

"_Ha, seino_."

"Wow, I don't know what— _Nemaiyo_. Thank you."

He inclined his head. "I shall begin preparation for this week's class tomorrow morning."

"I'll be here." Taking the cue to leave she got to her feet. "Nine o'clock?"

He too rose. "That would be acceptable."

There was a silence, not exactly awkward and not entirely comfortable, and lasting several heartbeats too long. Then he said, "_Moi loma_, Lieutenant Uhura."

"_Moi loma_, Commander." With half a smile, she turned to leave and was almost out the door when he said,

"Thirty-one."

She turned. "Sir?"

And there was that sardonic tilt to his lips again. "The number of my office is thirty-one, should you find yourself lost again."

She was almost certain it was a joke.

***

It being out of office hours and a Sunday, Spock decided not to wear his uniform. This had the advantage of allowing him to wear a sweater to compensate for the perennially cold offices and the chill in the morning air. His body had adapted to Earth's gravity and atmosphere, but stubbornly refused to adapt to the cold. His father, during his postings to Earth, and described the discomfort as 'bracing' – Spock simply found it unpleasant. So, when the opportunity presented to keep warm, he took it without hesitation.

He had risen early and had been working for an hour before Uhura appeared in his doorway.

"_Shacha!_" she said, mangling the word with her smile. "Oh, I'm glad you're not in uniform. I wasn't sure."

Uhura was dressed colorfully, in wide trousers of a fabric thin enough to make him shiver, and a top that revealed slender brown arms. Her hair was mostly hidden by a wide patterned band. The effect was pleasing, though he found himself missing the regulation skirt…

He cleared his throat. "_Shacha_," he corrected, flattening the tone appropriately.

Uhura cocked her head. "_Shacha_."

"Better." He rose. "I trust you are well this morning?"

"I'm good, how are you?"

"Also…good." He picked up a PADD and handed it over. "I thought it would be appropriate to begin this week's class with an exercise in prosodic structure."

She smiled, a knowing smile that pleased him; she had understood the reference to her own problems with spoken Vulcan, yet had not been offended. Taking the PADD she sat down, dropping her bag at her feet as she read. "This is a good start," she nodded, then looked up. "Might I suggest some changes?"

"Please do."

"I think we definitely have to include a diagramming model of pitch contour," she said, and he was about to reply when he realized she was simply talking out loud and required no response.

Leaving her to continue, he resumed his own work.

After almost two hours, Uhura stood up. "I think I've got it," she said, stretching. "It shouldn't take more than half an hour to complete, but none of them will get it right because I've—" Her stomach growled and she laughed, pressing a hand against it. Spock couldn't help but notice the flash of bare skin revealed by the gesture; it was quite transfixing. "Sorry, I skipped breakfast."

"You are hungry."

"I'm fine."

"By 'fine' you mean that you are able to continue, despite your hunger?"

She smiled. "Yeah. I'm not about to faint or anything."

He looked away, back at his screen. The sunshine, filtered through polarized windows, reflected in the corner like an invitation. They had made good progress; the lesson plan was complete and his notes assembled. It would not be inappropriate... He touched the screen, saving his work, and closed it down.

"I find that I am also hungry," he said. "Perhaps we could review the exercise you have devised in the cafeteria?"

She was surprised, that much was evident. "Sure. But—" She made a face. "Would you mind if we went off-campus? I can't stand the cafeteria food."

"On that subject, we are in agreement."

"Really?" She bent and picked up her bag, slipping the PADD inside and slinging it over her shoulder.

"It suffers from an…overabundance of cheese."

"An overabundance of cheese!" She laughed, and it provoked a warm sensation in the pit of his stomach. "You're so right, they put it on everything." She waited for him as he picked up his jacket and closed the door. "So, where do you like to eat?"

He hesitated. "I rarely eat off campus."

There was a silence, she looked away and he couldn't tell what she was thinking, but then she gave a quick smile and turned to walk down the corridor. "Well, in that case I know a fantastic place, Commander. And no cheese, I swear."

***

Because it was still early, they got a seat outside on the veranda overlooking the bay. _Mubin's_ was one of Nyota's favorite places in San Francisco – it was the only place she could get decent _chai_ – and she'd spent many happy hours there with her friends, and sometimes alone. Yet it felt strange today, sitting beneath the colorful umbrella opposite Commander Spock – he looked out of place here, his high-necked sweater strange against the glittering sea and the summer sun, his alien features unreadable.

The waiter had taken their order and the silence between them ran long. Ice cubes clattered in his water glass as he lifted it to his lips and then set it carefully back on the table.

"I like this place," Nyota said, grasping at anything to break the silence, "it reminds me of home."

"You do not feel at home here – at the Academy?" As he spoke, he pressed his fingertips onto the napkin on the table, drying the condensation; it was an oddly fastidious gesture. "Is your home city very different?"

"Yeah," she said, looking up. "In some ways."

He lifted an eyebrow. "On Vulcan, there are few regional differences. Our culture has been largely homogenous for millennia."

"That's hard to imagine, a whole planet sharing one culture..." She glanced out over the bay, toward the sky scraping buildings not so different from those in Mombasa, or Nairobi, or Paris, or anywhere else. She sighed. "Still, I suppose it'll be the same here, eventually."

"You do not approve?"

"No, not really. We've already lost a lot – religions, cuisines, philosophies, languages." She smiled. "My mother has a favorite saying: one language is not enough."

"She refers to the adoption of Standard as the universal Terran language?"

"She—"

They were interrupted by the arrival of their food, laid out in several dishes between them.

"So," she said, pulling a napkin into her lap and reaching for the mug of steaming _chai,_ "let me explain. This is _kachumbari_, kind of a salad – zingy, this is _kunde_, basically a bean stew, and this – _chapatti na sukuma wiki_ – is my favorite, although this isn't as good as my mother makes it."

She spooned some of the kale onto her plate, picked up a chapatti and folded it in half. "You eat it like this," she said, scooping the _sukuma wiki_ into the chapatti and taking a bite. "It's really good."

"The aroma is enticing," Spock said, though he looked uncertain, glanced up and signaled the waiter over. "I require a knife and fork."

Nyota paused with her food halfway to her mouth. "It really is better this way," she said, taking another bite.

"I would prefer..." The waiter returned, unfazed, and set down the silverware with a smile. Spock gave a brief nod of thanks, then in a lower voice said, "I would prefer to use a knife and fork."

Nyota bridled at the implicit insult. "When in Rome, Commander."

He lifted a chapatti onto his plate with the fork, added some _kunde_, and began to cut his food. His hands were long-fingered and slender, dexterous; it was a strange thing to notice, she thought, given the situation. "Were I to visit Rome," he said, glancing up at her, "I should endeavor to live as the Romans live."

She was tempted to point out the exact meaning of the phrase, and just why it was rude for outsiders to reject local customs. But she remembered her objective – his recommendation to Captain Pike – and wisely kept her affront to herself.

The silence returned and she was determined to let _him_ break it this time. Consequently, she'd almost finished her meal before either of them spoke. But at last Spock said, "You were telling me about your mother."

"Oh. Yes, I was."

"She does not approve of the use of Federation Standard?"

Nyota mopped up the last of the _kunde_ with her chapatti. "She didn't even let me begin learning it until I started school."

"Then your first language is...?"

"Kiswahili."

"Fascinating." He lifted his mug of _chai_, sniffed it, then took a sip. His features twisted in a very un-Vulcan grimace.

She narrowed her eyes. "You don't like it?"

"It is very sweet."

"Very."

He put the mug down and returned to his food. "I am unfamiliar with Kiswahili, I would like to hear it spoken."

Nyota considered a moment, then said, "_Kuleni hivi vitu vizuri sana_, Commander Spock." She held out the _kachumbari. "__Jaribu_?"

He looked at her so intently she had the feeling he was trying to translate simply by will alone, and then he said, "It is a lyrical language, I can see why the flat tones of spoken Vulcan elude you."

She forced a smile and made herself ignore yet another dig at her pronunciation. "Kiswahili is a beautiful language," she said, "but so many languages are being lost – so much culture." She shrugged and sat back in her chair, cradling the mug in her hands. "There's a price to pay for homogeneity."

"But the prize is peace," he said. "Prior to the Time of Awakening, Vulcan society was very diverse – but very destructive. Unity was our salvation. Your planet's history is not dissimilar."

"Don't get me wrong, I'm all for peace and unity. But…" She smiled. "Ah, I sound like my mother! The thing is, when it's your culture – your language, religion, customs – that are being subsumed, it's hard to be so sanguine about the common good."

With a precise movement he lifted his fork to his mouth. He chewed for a moment, then said, "I am often surprised by the cultural diversity of your planet in comparison to my own, and to many others, so your views are surprising."

Nyota took a sip of _chai_ and considered how to explain herself – it wasn't a subject she often discussed with her friends. "Look at Starfleet," she said. "To join you have to be fluent in Standard. Well, they call it Standard now, but it's really American English – that's the origin, way back in the days of super powers and world wars."

The commander gave her an arch look. "I might remind you that it is also the standard language of the United Federation of Planets – even Vulcans must learn it. Besides, a _lingua franca_ is a logical necessity."

"Agreed, but it's more than just a language. There's a whole lot of baggage that goes with it. You have to look at the history – what you call 'Terran' culture is predominantly North American, and the more ubiquitous Standard becomes, the harder it is for other languages and cultures to survive. A lot of my school friends only ever learned Standard, and all over the world languages are dying out, or they're only spoken in pockets – preserved, like in a museum."

"And language is essential to the preservation of culture."

"Exactly."

"I understand your point." He set his fork down, thinking. "If this is your opinion, then I wonder why you joined Starfleet. It is the primary force for uniformity in Terran society."

Nyota smiled down into her tea, blowing the steam from its surface. "Rumbled." She glanced up, saw his slight frown. "It means, you've found me out – I confess, I'm a little schizophrenic when it comes to Starfleet." She gave a wry shrug. "I understand my mother's opinions, and I share them to a certain extent, but I can't live the life she wanted for me. I just want to be out there, on the frontier. I want to see the stars." She shook her head, suddenly embarrassed. "That must sound ridiculously romantic to you."

"No, not really. It is a desire I share." His gaze held hers for a moment, then slid over her shoulder, as if he were watching the waiter moving around behind them. When he spoke, his voice was pitched subtly lower. "I believe," he said, "that your mother and my father would have much in common."

"Really?" Until that moment, she'd never even pictured him having a father – let alone a disapproving one. "He wasn't happy you joined Starfleet?"

"That would significantly understate the level of his displeasure."

"Ouch." Instinctively, she reached out and squeezed his hand. "He's proud of you now, I'm sure."

There was a long pause, then he withdrew his hand from hers and clasped it with his own. "We should return to work."

Nyota fell silent for a beat. She felt like she should apologize, although she didn't know why, or for what, and that made her defensive; the man was as prickly as a porcupine. She got to her feet, embarrassed and eager to be gone, and slapped a few credits on the table. "On me," she said, and turned to leave.

"That would be inappropriate," he said, putting down half the cost himself and returning the rest to her, "given our professional relationship."

"Right," she said, snatching up the credits and stuffing them in her pocket. "Fine."

They left the restaurant in silence; it was going to be a long afternoon.

***


	2. Chapter 2

4. _Skamaya_ – _n. _attraction; the quality of arousing interest

_A punishing sun turns the afternoon molten, heat shimmering against parched and barren rock. _

_He burns, dry as dust. Thirsting._

_Then—_

_A whisper of silk, drifting cool against his fingers. A mist of rain against his face. He yearns for it, wants to taste it, opens his arid lips and... _

_She crashes into his mind – a tidal wave of emotion. Quick, curious, burning. Burning for life. She wants everything, all at once – now. He's drowning in her, losing himself. Losing control._

_He can't think. Can't breathe. He—_

—woke with a gasp, bolt upright and slick with sweat. In his silent room, all he could hear was the rasp of his breathing.

Vulcans didn't dream. Their mental discipline ordered even their unconscious thoughts. But Spock had always dreamed – dreamed and sweated and battled. His human physiology never let him forget his mother's heritage, and he was grateful for it.

Mostly.

He closed his eyes and regulated his breathing, slowing his racing heart. Restoring control. But his damp skin chilled him, so he climbed out of bed, pulled on the old sweatshirt he wore to run, and walked to the window.

The sky was starting to pale, gray rather than the burnt sienna dawns of his childhood. Like everything else, it served to remind him that he was far from home – a stranger in a strange land. Always.

He could still feel the cold burn of her fingers on his hand, the brief flash of her mind, a sense memory that had filtered into his dream, and he could not deny the attraction he felt for her. It was not the first time he had found himself drawn to a human woman, and he remembered with warmth the time he had spent with Christine Chapel during their senior year at the Academy. That had been little more than a brief infatuation on both sides, born of xenophilic curiosity, but this...

He had never dreamed of Christine Chapel.

Of course, there was no question of pursuing his interest in Nyota Uhura – the fraternization regulations strictly forbad any kind of relationship between faculty and student, and soon he would be departing with the _Enterprise_ for a five year tour of duty. And then, of course, there was T'Pring...

He looked down at his hand, pale in the morning light, and remembered the strength of Uhura's grip – fierce, like her mind. She did not deserve to be toyed with, and he knew he must be careful not to encourage the flame he sensed kindling between them.

***

"That cold-blooded, hypercritical, uptight jerk!" Nyota flung her PADD onto the bed and slammed the door. "He wrote all over my ethics paper and only gave me a B! I've _never_ had a B, ever. For anything."

Gaila had her head buried in the closet, rummaging. "Who are we talking about?"

"Who do you think?" Nyota dropped her bag and sank onto the bed, grabbing her PADD to read over his comments for the fifth time – 'this is only assertion', 'while well expressed, this point skirts sophistry', 'I would expect a more tightly reasoned argument', 'this language is too emotive'.

Too emotive.

Apparently 'hello' was too emotive for Commander Pole-up-the-ass.

The PADD was yanked from her hands and flung back onto the bed. "Never mind that," Gaila said with a grin, "come with me." Disturbingly, she was out of uniform and holding a pair of binoculars.

"Bird watching?"

"Something like that." She grabbed Nyota's hand. "Come on, it'll be fun."

Lacking the will to argue, she let herself be dragged along until they stood among a growing group of students milling about in the quad outside the imposing physical sciences building. Everyone was gazing up, necks craning, and a few fingers were pointing.

Gaila had her binoculars out immediately, scanning the building.

"What are we doing?"

"Hang on," Gaila said. "Hang on... Oh, there he is! I see him!" She shoved the binoculars into Nyota's hands. "Look, right above the third floor labs."

Curious, despite herself, Nyota looked. "You have got to be kidding me..."

"Isn't it cool?"

She tightened the focus, zooming in on the lone figure scaling the building. "And of course he's not climbing on a rope."

"He's amazing."

"Amazingly stupid." Nyota lowered the binoculars, squinting at the building; from this distance he was just a black dot against the gleaming stone. "Even by Jim Kirk's standards, this scores a ten on the 'How dumb am I?' scale."

"No one's ever climbed it before," Gaila said, snatching the glasses and looking again. "Not in the whole history of the Academy. When he gets to the top, he's going to plant a flag."

"A flag?"

She beamed. "An Orion flag."

"Is this...?" Nyota grabbed Gaila's arm. "You and Jim Kirk? Gaila..."

"What?" She yanked her arm free, lifting the binoculars again. "It's nothing. We're just hanging out."

"Oh God... Tell me you haven't fallen for Jim Kirk."

Gaila grinned. "Oh, he's waving!"

"Of all the people... Gaila, you know what he's like! And right before finals, before we graduate."

She touched her arm again, and this time Gaila lowered the binoculars herself. Her smile faded. "I didn't do it on purpose. It just happened."

"But _Jim Kirk_?"

"I know! It's just— He's so..." She gave a helpless shrug. "One day it'll happen to you, then you'll see."

"Not with Jim Kirk, it won't!" Nyota sighed. "Just be careful, okay?"

Gaila didn't answer, turning back to watch the climb, and Nyota already knew it was too late for caution.

All that remained was to kick Jim Kirk's ass for going anywhere near her friend – if, that was, he didn't save her the trouble by falling and breaking his stupid neck first.

***

Three days after their shared lunch – three days after that single, burning touch – Spock decided to put Nyota Uhura out of his mind.

It was the rational thing to do, given the degree of preoccupation he had been suffering on her account. While consulting with Captain Pike on recruitment for _Enterprise's_ science department, he had caught himself, twice, replaying their lunchtime discussion word for word, while simultaneously trying to define the exact shape of her cheek bones, the slender lines of her neck, the precise way the sun had glistened upon her skin.

It had proven a persistent distraction, so he chose to put her out of his mind.

He put her out of his mind when he ate breakfast in the cafeteria and noted the preponderance of cheese. He put her out of his mind as he graded ethics papers that parroted established texts, without once attempting to subvert or challenge the orthodoxy. He put her out of his mind when he saw her on the opposite side of the quad, sitting in the sun and deep in animated conversation with a fair-haired human male – Kirk, a cadet of infamous and reckless ability. And he put her out of his mind until the very moment he stepped into the interspecies ethics class and saw her watching him with a hard gleam in her eye.

She was primed for confrontation and he burned at the prospect.

It was imperative, however, that he not betray his unprofessional feelings and so he deliberately sat as far from her as possible, yet on the same side of the rectangular table so that she would be out of his direct line of sight. He did not call on her once during the seminar discussion, and was ashamed that he was forced to resort to such extreme measures. But given the surge of adrenaline he experienced at the mere sound of her voice, he knew that to address her directly – to invite another verbal sparring match – would mean disaster. His attraction, so uncomfortably close to the surface, would surely be visible not only to Uhura, but to the group in general, and the prospect of being so exposed was appalling.

The seminar's subject was the universal 'golden rule' and its significance in creating interspecies understanding and trust. It was a subject, typically, upon which Uhura held challenging opinions.

"The golden rule – treat others as you wish to be treated – can't apply when dealing with a race who wish to be treated different to ourselves. The whole concept is predicated on the notion that we are all the same. It works when dealing with species with broadly similar moral boundaries, but you couldn't, for example, use it when dealing with Klingons." She cut him a bold look. "Or even Vulcans."

It was a deliberate provocation, and a retort was hot on his lips. Had they been alone he would have taken great pleasure in debating her to a standstill. But they were not alone and he had to be careful, so he denied the smile that threatened and refused to rise to the bait.

"An interesting point, Uhura," he said, and turned his attention to the cadet opposite him. "How do you respond, Verdugo?"

Verdugo's eyes went wide. "I— I'm not sure you could say that Vulcans... I mean," he cast a desperate look at Uhura, "they're not that different from us, morally. Are they?"

"That is hardly the issue," Spock cut in. "The point is whether or not the golden rule has any value when dealing with two such different races. In a given situation, a Vulcan may not wish to be treated as a human might. That is Uhura's point."

"The assumption that we all have the same basic moral compass is to impose a human bias on all our dealings with other species," Uhura added.

"And yet, does it not provide a common standard from which to operate?" Spock said. "With some imagination, one can extrapolate the impact of one's actions – even on a member of an alien race with different expectations – and decide if, in that situation, one would wish to be treated so?"

"Not all species have imagination."

"We are only talking about ourselves, Uhura – about _our_ response."

"You apply the golden rule yourself, do you, when dealing with other species – say, humans?"

"I attempt to, though I make no claim as to my success in every situation." He hesitated. "However, I do not consider humans to be another species."

"Yet you hold us to a Vulcan standard. You judge us as you would expect to be judged, even when that standard is impossible for us to reach."

The heat in her voice suggested that the issue had some personal weight that he could not fathom. He was about to question her objectivity, when he remembered the eyes upon them and realized, belatedly, that once again their discussion was dominating the class. He took a breath, let it out slowly, and said, "There is always the possibility, Lieutenant, that the alien race you are encountering has a superior moral code than your own. The golden rule cannot be seen as the only measure by which interspecies encounters can be judged; we must always keep an open mind."

She didn't respond and he let the subject move on. He might have said something to her about it later, as the class ended and the other students left, but Uhura was first out the door and the opportunity did not arrive. On reflection, it was for the best and he admired her decision; had she lingered, he was sure the suspicion of the other students would have been aroused.

He was still considering her circumspect behavior as he left the seminar room, heading for the computer labs, and so did not hear his name being called until a hand touched his shoulder. "Commander?"

He looked up with a start. "Captain Healy, pardon me, I was..." He found himself at a loss to explain.

Healy just smiled. "I'd like a word, if you have a few moments, Spock."

"Of course."

"Walk with me. I'm on the hunt for a coffee."

Her direction turned toward the cafeteria and Spock found himself outside, in the glare of a cool sun.

"How are you finding the phonology class?" Healy asked. "I trust Nyota's working out well."

"She is a gifted linguist," he said, hoping the truth of the answer would mask any undue feeling in his words.

"She is," Healy agreed, cutting across the grass. Spock followed. "She's also alarmingly ambitious and a dreadful perfectionist. Did you read her dissertation?"

"An accomplished piece of work."

"Well above undergraduate level. It needs some tweaking, but I'm going to suggest publication after she graduates."

"I felt the section on prosody was given too much weight..."

Healy nodded. "My thought exactly. I'll mention it at our next tutorial." She laughed. "Nyota won't be happy."

"I anticipate not."

"Can I get you a coffee?" she asked, as they stepped into the crowded cafeteria. "Tea?"

"No, thank you." He glanced around, and didn't realize he was looking for Uhura until he saw her alone at a table on the far side of the room. He might have approached her if he had not been with Captain Healy, if he had not been her instructor, if many things had been different... She looked up and, for a moment, met his eyes. He quickly looked away. Captain Healy was already stirring her coffee and Spock moved to join her, aware of Uhura's gaze on him the whole time.

"What I wanted to ask you about, Spock," Healy said, oblivious to his discomfort, "was the visit by Ambassador Sarek to the fleet yards prior to _Enterprise's_ maiden voyage."

Spock did not react; this was an emotion with which he had long experience. "Is my presence required, as a representative of Starfleet?"

"Not required," she said, sipping her coffee and heading back outside, "requested. Admiral Komack believes your presence will symbolize the close cooperation between Earth and Vulcan; the axis, if you will, upon which the Federation turns. However, he is aware of the personal sensitivities involved and wanted to give you the opportunity to decline."

"That will not be necessary," he said, smoothing down that old feeling of rejection and hurt. "It will be an honor to represent Starfleet."

Healy cast him a speculative look. "An honor too, perhaps, to show the Ambassador around our new flagship? A ship of which you'll be the First Officer."

He considered his answer with care, aware of his own bitterness and ensuring it did not color his words. "If you hope that my father will feel pride in my achievement, then you will be disappointed. From a Vulcan perspective, the lowest graduate from the Science Academy is of more worth than a dozen Starfleet captains."

She sighed, and patted him on the arm in a gesture that reminded him of his mother. "Well, they're wrong and I hope you know it. But good on you, lad, for standing up to them."

"My motivation in attending is simply to serve Starfleet. I have no personal agenda."

Healy just smiled. "I'll have the details sent through, Commander – I believe there may be some interpreting involved, among the meeting and greeting."

"Inevitably." He slowed, the computer labs close to hand. "If there is nothing else...?"

"One more thing," Healy stopped, squinting at him in the sunshine. "Have you had time to look through the students I suggested for the MGC?"

"I apologize, I have not—"

She waved a dismissive hand. "There's no rush, I just wanted to add one more candidate – if that's okay?"

"Of course."

Healy nodded. "Nyota has asked me to put her name forward, just on the off-chance."

"Nyota? I mean— " His surprise was mortifyingly evident. "The MGC is designed for students approaching the end of their doctorates. Lieutenant Uhura, while gifted in her field, is—"

"No harm in letting her apply, Commander. She knows the odds are against her."

"There are many highly qualified candidates."

"Yes, but she wants to try – as I said, the girl is alarmingly ambitious." Healy smiled. "She has her eyes on the _Enterprise_, and she thinks this might clinch it."

Spock had to fight to keep his voice neutral. "I shall review her application, Captain, alongside all the others."

But it would be a test of his objectivity that he was unsure he could pass, and for a moment he considered confessing as much to Captain Healy. However she was already walking away, and his horror of discussing something so personal quickly assured him that, with sufficient meditation on the subject, he would be able to reach a rational decision unbiased by his increasingly powerful feelings.

He would control the emotion, not permit it to control him.

***

She looked up, without knowing why, and found him watching her with that intense gaze that made her feel like a slide on a microscope. Then, without even a nod, he walked away and started talking to Captain Healy, hands clasped behind his rigid back.

Over the noise of the cafeteria, there was no chance she could overhear their conversation, but her paranoid imagination filled in what her ears missed.

"_She is adequate, but on Vulcan a child of ten would have twice her skills. A posting to the Enterprise? That is unlikely, given her constant use of sophistry, ill-reasoned theories and—"_

"Who are you ogling?" Gaila appeared out of nowhere, sliding into the seat across the table from Nyota and setting down her tray. "Commander Spock?"

"I'm not ogling!"

Gaila cocked her head, appraising. "Nice body."

"What?"

"Tall, athletic...lithe."

"_Lithe_?" She slapped her hands over hear ears. "Stop! That's just— Ugh."

Gaila laughed, and started eating. "Don't tell me you didn't notice, because I won't believe you."

"Are you kidding?" Nyota glanced back over, watching Spock heading toward the exit, still in close conversation with Captain Healy. "He gave me a B, Gaila. Trust me, his physique is the last thing I care about. Even if it was worth noticing. Which it isn't."

Finishing her mouthful, Gaila said, "Did you know Vulcans can only have sex once every seven years?"

Nyota gave her a flat stare. "What?"

"I swear!" Gaila held up a hand. "They go into heat once every seven years, and then they're like animals. Mate or die. It's brutal."

"Oh my God, will you stop it?"

"Can you imagine?" She leaned over the table, eyes glittering with mischief. "It's probably, like, the best sex ever – all that Vulcan passion, under pressure for seven long years, and bam!" She shot her fist in the air. "Erupting all over the place."

Nyota was on her feet, torn between laughter and discomfort. "Gaila, I swear I'm going to kill you if you don't shut up."

"Don't pretend you haven't thought about it." She stabbed a straw into her juice sachet and gave it a deliberate suck. "Wondering what it would take to cause an eruption."

"You're twisted, you know that? You're a sick and twisted woman, Gaila. That is absolutely, unequivocally the very last thing on my mind. And, I might add, his." She started gathering up her work; the library would be a safer bet. "He gave me a B, Gaila, that's all I care about."

She laughed. "As if that proves anything!"

"It proves that he thinks I'm an idiot!" She clutched her PADD under her arm. "But I'm not going to let him get away with it."

Gaila's face was suddenly serious. "You're going to appeal? Nyota, that's pretty serious, I'm not sure you should—"

"I'm not going to appeal," she said, patting her PADD. "I'm going to resubmit."

"What?" she snatched the PADD from her hand, turning away before Nyota could grab it back. "Oh my God, you're rewriting your paper! Are you insane?"

"Give it back."

"Nyota, a B isn't a bad score."

"Not good enough for the _Enterprise_. Now give it back."

"And you say _I'm_ twisted?" Reluctantly, Gaila slid the PADD across the table. "You can't get A's for everything, Nyota."

"Says who?"

Gaila shook her head, her curls jostling. "Come out tonight. A bunch of us are going to _Cochrane's_. It'll be fun."

"I might stop by later, when I'm done."

"You know what?" Gaila slumped back in her chair. "I actually wish you _were_ lusting after his hot Vulcan ass, because at least it would make more sense than this."

"That would make no sense at all!" Nyota exclaimed. Then she softened, "Look, I'm okay, Gaila. I promise."

Gaila gave her a long look, then nodded. "I wish I had your drive," she said, with a rueful smile. "You're going places, Nyota Uhura, I know it."

"The only place I want to go," she said, "is to the bridge of the _Enterprise_. And I'm not letting _him_ get in my way."

It was late by the time she made the final changes to her paper, and the library had already given its fifteen minute warning. The sunny day had faded into a damp evening, and as Nyota stepped out into a misting drizzle she shivered and wished she'd brought a jacket. Luckily, she didn't have to go far, dashing through the rain and up the steps that led to the graduate halls of residence.

She knew it fairly well and had no trouble locating Spock's room. It was only after she'd pressed the door chime that it occurred to her he might already be asleep – he looked like the type who'd be tucked up in bed with a Starfleet manual by ten – and she had an apology on her lips as the door slid open.

He stared, his surprise evident. "Uhura…"

"I'm sorry to disturb you."

"Why are you here?"

She hesitated, thrown by his bluntness, then held out the PADD. "I'd be grateful if you'd let me resubmit this, sir."

He looked from her face to the PADD and back again. "That is why you have come here?"

"I know it's late, I'm sorry." Behind her, she heard the swish of an opening door further down the hall, a muffled laugh. "But if you could just—"

"You should come in." He glanced past her, out into the empty corridor, then stepped aside.

"Oh, there's no need…"

"It would be prudent," he said, walking away from her and into his room. She had no choice but to follow, letting the door slide shut behind her.

Unlike her own room, his was larger and included a small sitting area, separate from the bedroom, that was dominated by a small sofa and one large chair. He cleared a stack of books from chair and gestured for her to take a seat. There was quiet music playing, obviously Vulcan, and a fragrant aroma in the air that she realized was drifting from a steaming mug on the low table between the chairs.

"I've disturbed you," she said, perching uncomfortably on the edge of her seat.

"You have," he said, sitting opposite her, "but it is not unwelcome."

Unsure what to make of that, she didn't answer.

He sat back and looked at her, stretching out his legs and steepling his fingers; she blamed Gaila for the fact that she noticed, for the first time, that his legs were rather long and his waist rather trim. She looked up, in case he thought she was staring, and found herself captured by his flat gaze. After an awkward moment he turned his attention to her PADD and an eyebrow rose. "Your paper was adequate, why have you chosen to resubmit?"

"Because 'adequate' isn't good enough, sir."

"Working on your thesis would have been a more profitable use of your time."

"Well," she said, bristling, "it _is_ my time."

He looked up, but didn't answer, studying her as if she were a puzzle he was trying to solve. "This is really why you have come here?"

"Yes. Why else?"

His brow twitched into a frown. "Very well," he said, and began reading.

It was a five thousand word paper; he read it in ten long minutes. When he was finished, he touched the screen a couple of times, and offered her the PADD without any comment.

Holding his implacable gaze, she took it from him. "Well?"

"An improvement."

She looked down and felt a flare of triumph. _Yes!_ "Thank you," she said, unable to contain her pleasure.

His lips tilted in a barely-there smile. "That was what you wanted?"

"Yes, sir." She rose to her feet, but he didn't move and there was something disconcerting about looking down on him. He seemed less imposing, somewhat baffled, and Nyota felt a sudden need to explain herself. "I have to be the best," she said with an embarrassed smile. "I want the _Enterprise._"

"Which is why you wish to attend the MGC next month?"

Startled, she said, "How did you know about that?"

"Because Captain Healy forwarded your application for my consideration."

"Your…?" Her heart leaped with a sudden hope. "But why are you—?"

The corner of his mouth gave an ironic curl. "Such administrative responsibilities are often given to junior academic staff."

"So you get to choose who goes?"

"To recommend candidates to the selection board."

She smiled, she couldn't help herself. "Which means you choose, because the senior staff can't be bothered to vet the applicants themselves. Right?"

That ironic curl was almost a smile. "I have no comment."

"Oh…" It came out on an excited breath, a sigh. "Wow, I would love the opportunity to present my thesis there, to get that kind of attention."

"It would be a substantial academic achievement."

"To put it mildly. That would get me the _Enterprise_, don't you think? That would impress Captain Pike."

He frowned. "I have no input into the selection of the _Enterprise's_ crew, beyond the science department. If you believe that I may have some influence over Captain Pike's decisions, you—"

"No, I didn't mean that." She felt heat rise to her face, uncomfortable because he had – partly – seen through her. "I would never ask for a favor. I want my academic record to speak for itself."

He looked away, brow still furrowed. "That, at least, I can ensure with a clear conscience; your paper is admirable." He rose then, and she found herself standing close enough that she could feel the heat of him – which was strange, because she'd always considered him so pale and cold. Like snow. "In future," he said, "it would be prudent to restrict our meetings to my office."

Embarrassed, she nodded. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to invade your priv—"

"I mean, to avoid any suspicion of favoritism."

"Favoritism?" Was he talking about the conference, about selecting her to go? Her heart raced and she couldn't prevent a nervous laugh. "Well, no one's going suspect _that_!"

He didn't answer, but there was something in his eyes that looked like a flinch. Had she offended his sense of decorum, being so glib? She sobered. "Sorry, Commander. I understand your point, people make up all kinds of nonsense and I don't want to put you in an awkward position."

"Or yourself?" he said, uncertainly.

"No."

He looked like he might say more, but then had a change of heart and instead took a breath and moved past her – so close that her shoulder brushed his chest. She made a point of noticing neither his warmth nor firmness, and silently cursed Gaila's one track mind. At the door, Spock stopped, one hand poised to open it and the other clenching at his side. Then he touched the pad and the door opened with a swish. When he turned to face her, he was as impassive as always. "I shall see you on Sunday morning, to prepare for Monday's phonology class."

Nyota nodded. "Yes, nine o'clock."

"I suggest you eat breakfast before you come, we have a substantial amount of work to complete."

Which was thinly veiled code for 'don't expect to get a lunch break this week'.

They parted with no more than a nod on either side, and she heard his door slide shut before she'd taken three steps.

Nyota let out a deep breath, shoulders sagging with relief. He was a strange, confusing, difficult man and she promised herself never to set foot in his quarters again. It was a promise she knew she'd have no difficulty keeping.

5. _Aitlu_ – _v. _desire: to wish or long for; crave

There were times when running was not enough.

There were times when confusion required the clarifying impact of his fist against leather, the disciplined aggression of _ke-tarya_.

She had come to his room, late at night. Alone.

His fist hit the punch bag. The impact jarred, and he relished it.

She had come to his room, alone. Late at night. She had asked him to re-grade her paper.

He spun, kicking hard, and the bag slammed back against its bearing.

She had asked him to re-grade her paper, but was that really what she wanted?

He regained his balance, stilled himself, eying the target.

Had it been a pretence, an excuse to be private and alone? Had she expected something of him? Had she wanted him to—?

He followed up with a double jab, right then left. Sweat trickled down his spine, like mockery. He punched again, left, then right.

Humans were infuriatingly indirect. He struggled to understand their convoluted interactions, never knowing what they really _meant_.

She had laughed. _Favoritism? Well, no one's going to suspect that!_

He took a breath, circled to the back of the gym, shaking his muscles loose. Preparing.

She had laughed, but had she laughed at him or with him? Would no one suspect because no one knew, or because no one would believe it possible?

He began to run, a sprint, muscles bunching.

Was she angry? Had she wanted him to act, to ignore regulations and resolve the growing tension between them? Is that why she had come to his room, late and alone? Is that what she wanted?

He leapt, twisting, and slammed both feet into the bag. There was a screech of metal, the punch bag broke free and careened into the wall, and he landed in a low crouch, breathing hard.

"_Bath'pa_," he cursed, wiping a hand across his face as he stood up and surveyed the damage.

He still had no answer to his questions.

***

Saturday night at _Cochrane's_. Every so often, it had to be done.

Three beers, three tequila slammers, and the music slid under her skin. It was coming from inside her, a heavy pulse beating hard and hot with her own surging blood. She moved with it, flowed with it, felt it from her toes to the roots of her hair.

She was hot, sweating, alive. There were other bodies moving with her, around her – faces she knew, split wide and frozen in laughter, faces she didn't know, serious and intent. They danced, she danced.

Someone pressed a drink into her hand. "My round!"

Kirk grinned, downed his shot with a shake of his head and a whoop. He'd lost his shirt, again, and in her tilted, impressionist world she could admire the sheen on his skin, the curve of muscle. There was heat in his eyes, invitation and mutual approval.

Nyota leaned closer, whispered into his ear. "I hope you know what you're doing."

"Always," he grinned, with that cocksure confidence she admired and hated in equal measure. "Want me to show you?"

And then Gaila was there, slipping her arms around his waist, and eying Nyota with a speculative look she recognized.

"He's all yours," Nyota said, backing away. "I'm only here to dance." She knocked back the drink and let the music take her.

Later – who knew how long? – she was outside.

There were people around her, and her back was wet because she was lying on the grass and above them were the stars.

"That one," Kirk said, and she saw his arm point. "I'm going there."

"Which one is that?"

"The furthest from here."

She turned her head, saw him in profile. Gaila was gone, she didn't know where, and Jim Kirk looked sad. "You don't like it here?"

"Too much gravity," he said, letting his arm fall to the ground. "Too much...weight."

She watched him, and thought of him bruised and bloodied in that Iowan bar. There was something heroic in his need to fly, to escape, something that made her want to follow where he led. "I'm drunk," she said, because it was the only explanation for such cock-eyed thoughts.

He turned his head and looked at her, grinning. "So am I."

Then someone shouted "There it is!" and she looked up and remembered why they were lying on the grass.

"_Enterprise_," Kirk whispered, soft, like a lover's caress. "That's our star."

And Nyota shivered beneath destiny's cold touch.

***

"I'm dying… Oh God, I'm going to die."

Someone groaned, and an arm landed on her face. "Then do it quietly."

Nyota peeled open one eye and found the ceiling spinning above her; her mouth was dry, her stomach heaved and rolled. "Oh God…"

She made it to the bathroom in time, just, and clung to the toilet in case the spinning room decided to throw her off. She closed her eyes, but it didn't help.

After a while, she heard shuffling footsteps behind her and a growly voice said, "I gotta pee."

"Use your own bathroom."

"This _is_ my bathroom."

Miserably, she looked up and found herself staring at Jim Kirk's knees. "Oh God…"

Clinging to the wall, she made it back to the bed and collapsed onto the rumpled sheets. Someone else was snoring.

"Please tell me I didn't sleep with you," she said, as Jim shuffled out of the bathroom.

"Well, you _slept_," he said, sounding far too amused. He flopped down next to her on the bed, making it wobble.

She groaned. "Stop moving."

"You look terrible."

There was no point in answering that, and besides she needed all her focus to keep from throwing up again.

The snoring continued, and Nyota guessed it wasn't Gaila.

With a sigh, Kirk stretched out next to her. "Thank God it's Sunday, huh?"

Sunday.

"Shit!" She sat bolt upright, sending the room into a tailspin. "Shit, what time is it?"

But she didn't have time to hear his answer, because her stomach was climbing back into her throat and she had to scramble for the bathroom again. Once more clinging to the toilet, and between heaves, she shouted, "Kirk? Time!"

After some muttering and groaning, and something heavy falling onto the floor, he called, "Almost eight-thirty, why?"

"Shit!" She felt so wretched she wanted to cry, and might have done if Kirk hadn't been there to laugh and point. "I have to go."

Predictably, he laughed. "There's no way you're going anywhere."

But she forced herself to her feet, the room still spinning. "I have to…TA prep. At nine."

There was a silence, then, "Shit."

The room was turning, even with her eyes closed she could feel it. "Oh God." And she was back on her knees over the toilet. "Oh shit."

From behind her there was more shuffling and bumping, then Kirk was saying, "McCoy, wake up." Something thumped, it sounded like a thrown pillow. "Bones!"

"Wha—?" another voice groaned. "What the hell are you throwing things for?"

"Uhura needs one of your magic shots."

"A who?"

"Uhura. She's in the bathroom."

More shuffling, cursing and floundering, and then a surprisingly gentle hand was pressed against her forehead. "I'm Leonard McCoy, nice to meet you."

She threw up and he patted her on the back.

"Nice." Then, "What the hell did you give her, Jim?"

"Me?" Kirk sounded outraged. "Nothing." There was a pause. "Nothing but tequila."

"Nothing but tequila…" McCoy muttered in disgust. Then he was gone, returning with small black bag. "This is between you, me, and the john," he said, pulling something out of the bag.

There was a sharp pain in her neck, and then, like a miracle, the world stopped spinning. Nausea faded. All that was left was a head stuffed with cotton, eyes that squinted against the light, and a vile- tasting mouth. Nyota sat up; the room stayed still. "Oh thank God."

McCoy studied her from beneath a thatch of dark hair, eyes narrowed in a face too old to be your average cadet. "Better?"

"I could kiss you."

He recoiled. "Please don't."

Gingerly, she stood up. The floor was solid beneath her feet, the walls stationary. "Time?"

"Eight thirty-eight," Kirk called from outside, and she didn't miss the note of glee in his voice. "You're going to be late, Cadet."

She slid a glance at McCoy, who met it with a quirked eyebrow. "Care to take a bet, Mr. Kirk?"

"The first round says you don't make it."

"You're on." Nyota held out her hand. "Now give me your shirt."

***

"You appear tired," Spock said that afternoon, as she tried to refocus her attention on the paper she was marking. But the words were slipping all over the screen, another yawn cracking her jaw, and she had to give up.

"Sorry, I had a bit of a late night."

"It is not profitable to study so late, Lieutenant. Your work will suffer."

"Oh I wasn't—" She stopped herself, just too late.

He looked at her across the desk they were sharing, his gaze dropping briefly to the large t-shirt she'd borrowed; it had _Iowa Nighthawks_ splashed across the front. "I see."

Irritated by his judgmental tone, she said, "I like to wait up and watch the _Enterprise_ pass overhead, that's all."

"The _Enterprise_?"

"Big shiny new ship?" She cocked her head toward the ceiling. "Moored at the fleet yards?"

His lips compressed. "I am familiar with it, but there can be little to see from this distance."

"It's beautiful," she protested. "It looks like a star. Our star."

There was a pause, then he said, "_Our_ star?"

Embarrassed by her sentimentality – which she blamed on the hangover – she said, "That's just something Kirk said last night. Our star. Everyone dreams of the _Enterprise_, don't they?"

Another pause, this one longer. "James Kirk is... a friend of yours?"

"Not exactly." She glanced at the clock and wondered if he'd let her escape for a coffee. "Mostly I think he's insufferable, but there are times... There's something about him, I guess. An energy. He's so vital."

"Energy without focus has little effect," Spock said, sitting back in his chair. He was frowning. "James Kirk often lacks focus."

"You know him?"

Abruptly, he got to his feet and paced to the window. When he spoke his tone was measured, but the set of his shoulders was a study in tension. "Only by reputation; he has a long record of infamous pranks."

"He can be an idiot," she agreed. "But I'll give him this; the guy knows no fear."

"Then he will fail," Spock said, as imperious as she'd ever heard him. Behind his straight back, his fingers knotted like rope. "A man who knows no fear cannot understand it; a man who does not understand fear cannot conquer it."

"Maybe he doesn't have to conquer it," she said hotly, "maybe he just has to live with it. Like the rest of us mortals."

Spock didn't answer, and after a while she went back to her work in silence.

Over the next few days, she saw Spock quite often. Not on purpose, and not always to talk to, but it seemed that if she was leaving the library he would be walking in, and they would stop to exchange a few words. Or she would bump into him after class and, instead of a quick 'hello-goodbye', he would walk with her all the way to her next class. He never had much to say, beyond a few queries about her thesis, but he did insist on _looking_ at her. What he was looking for, she couldn't imagine, but he studied her so intently that she began to suspect she was part of an anthropological research project. It was somewhat unnerving, as she told Gaila one sunny lunchtime as they ate together on the grass outside the refectory.

Gaila's reaction was predictable. "Maybe he likes you."

"Gaila, he doesn't even like me, let alone _like_ me." She sighed and poked at her limp sandwich. "Besides, not everything in life is about sex."

"You'd be surprised," Gaila said with a grin. "But the thing is, you're being too human about it – as always."

"What does that mean?"

"It means that maybe that's what Vulcans do when they like someone."

"Follow them around in silence?" She laughed. "Unlikely."

"He's watching you."

"I know. That's what I—"

"No, right now. Look, over there, he's totally watching you."

Nyota glanced up and saw that she was right. He was watching her as he walked past, on the way – it appeared – to the computing labs. She raised a hand and waved, he gave a brief nod and looked quickly away. "See? Don't you think it's weird?"

"He was embarrassed!" Gaila's voice brimmed with delight. "Oh, he's totally into you!"

"Gaila—"

"No, I'm serious. He's totally into you. It's so obvious – God, I can practically smell it."

Nyota scowled. "Will you stop it?"

"Desire," she said, smiling up at a couple of grinning freshmen walking past. "Orions are extremely sensitive to it."

"You're imagining things."

Gaila cocked her head. "Why does it bother you so much?"

"It doesn't bother me."

"Yes it does."

"It doesn't bother me, because it's not true." She frowned, "No, there's something else going on."

Gaila flopped back onto the grass. "Do you like him?"

Ignoring the question, Nyota let her thoughts wander; he was watching her, studying her, assessing her. Assessing her? "Oh my God, I know!"

Gaila watched her through eyes slitted against the sun. "What?"

"It's because of the MGC."

"The what?"

"The MGC – the Multidisciplinary Graduate Conference. I've applied and he's assessing the candidates." She smiled, satisfied that she had her answer. "_That's_ what he's doing, he's assessing me."

Gaila laughed. "Yeah, right, 'assessing' you. _That's_ what he's doing."

"You," Nyota said, getting to her feet, "are a terminally romantic, sexually incontinent Orion lunatic."

"And you," Gaila said, closing her eyes and lifting her face to the sun, "are a self-deluded, self-denying, uptight human being."

Nyota smiled. "See you later."

"Where are you going?"

She glanced toward the computer labs. "To help my assessment along."

"Be careful, Nyota." Gaila lifted her head, suddenly serious. "Just because you think you know what's going on in his head, doesn't mean you do."

"Oh," she said with a smile, "I think I have a pretty good idea."

***

Over the next few days, Spock saw Uhura more often than could be explained by random chance. She had taken to eating her lunch on the grass outside the computer labs, and often seemed to be walking past his office as he was leaving. She was friendly, smiling, though talked almost exclusively about presenting her thesis at the MGC conference. He surmised that she considered this a safe topic of public conversation.

It was clear, however, that their frequent meetings were not coincidental, and the pleasure he took in that knowledge was considerable. Though their opinions frequently clashed, he found that the friction between them generated significant heat; a heat he struggled to control. A heat he found, increasingly, that he did not wish to control.

His mother would have counseled him not to try, yet it was impossible to deny his Vulcan sensibilities entirely; choosing to pursue Nyota Uhura was a significant matter. His attraction to her went far beyond the mere physical. This was a human desire to touch her body, entwining dangerously with a Vulcan desire to touch her mind, and he knew that intimacy between them could not be undertaken lightly. She was no Christine Chapel, and this was no xenophilic infatuation.

That brief contact they had shared, skin to skin, had opened her mind to him – so ardent, so challenging, so incisive – and he found himself enthralled. He desired to know her intimately, to explore her, to understand her – and, through her, himself. That was the crux.

In the brief touch they had shared he had sensed, on some atavistic level, that Nyota could guide him through the complex maze of his own humanity. She could help him understand the slippery emotions that had always eluded his mental discipline. She could bridge the division that defined him.

Yet still he hesitated. To take a human mate, to break his betrothal to T'Pring, would be seen as a final rejection of his home. It would assure his ostracism from the higher levels of Vulcan society, destroy any chance of a rapprochement with his father, and commit him forever to the life of an exile. Viewed in such a light, it must be considered an illogical choice.

And yet…

Standing at the window of his office, he watched as she crossed the quad towards the computer labs, her ponytail swinging and hips swaying. The truth was, when it came to Nyota Uhura, he found that logic failed him.


	3. Chapter 3

6. _Laf-tor_ – _v. _to err: to make a mistake; be incorrect

A week after her campaign to win a place at the MGC conference had begun, Nyota was on her way to her usual lunch spot when she heard someone call her name. Turning, she saw Captain Healy cutting across the quad toward her.

"Nyota," Healy said, as she drew near, "I'm glad I caught you. Have you got a few minutes? I'd like a word."

"I was just about to have lunch, that's all," Nyota said, with a quick glance at the computer sciences building. There was no sign of Spock, but that didn't matter because her interspecies ethics class was right after lunch and she could talk to him then.

"Good," Healy nodded, "then walk with me."

They headed off together, back towards the linguistics department, an unusual silence between them. After a time, Healy said, "How's your final draft coming on?"

"Almost finished," Nyota said. "I'm just tweaking it really."

"Excellent, I'd like to comment if you could send it to me."

"Of course, thank you."

The silence fell again as they wove through groups of cadets making the most of the sun and eating outside. When they drew closer to the linguistics building, Healy put a hand on Nyota's arm and slowed, turning to squint at her in the bright sunshine. "Nyota, I just wanted to make sure you weren't too disappointed about the MGC selection."

Her stomach lurched. "What?"

"The— Oh, you've not heard." She squeezed Nyota's arm, then let go. "I'm afraid you were unsuccessful."

"Oh." It was a sharp disappointment, sour, but she did her best to hide it. "Was there any feedback from the selection board?"

Healy shook her head. "You weren't short listed in the end, so the board didn't see your application. Commander Spock felt—"

"He didn't shortlist me?"

"I'm sorry, Nyota. It was always a long shot."

Disappointment transformed swiftly into anger. "Yes," she snapped, "very long."

"There were many excellent candidates," Healy said, a warning tone in her voice.

She ignored it. "Did he—? Did the commander give any reason why he didn't forward my application?"

"He didn't feel it would be appropriate, given your status as an undergraduate."

"_Appropriate_?" She stared. "That's it? Didn't he give any other reason?"

"He didn't have to, Nyota, and I didn't ask. Commander Spock's judgment is impeccable." She softened, patting her on the shoulder. "Come on now, it's not so bad. Send me your thesis and then come see me, we'll give it a final polish."

Nyota gave a swift nod and ground out, "Thank you, sir." It was all she could squeeze past her anger and, with a farewell nod, she stalked away.

He had all but promised to recommend her to the board! He knew what it meant to her, how much she needed it to secure her posting to the _Enterprise_; he'd even cautioned her about the appearance of favoritism. All her preparation, all her excitement – he'd let her talk and talk about it, when he'd never intended to recommend her at all. And not because her work wasn't good enough, but because it transgressed some stupid rule!

Was it some kind of Vulcan joke? Had he been laughing at her behind his smug, superior face? Why had he praised her thesis, discussed it with her, talked about how best it could be presented, while all the time planning on stabbing her in the back?

It was incomprehensible.

Almost without thinking, she found herself back in her room. Gaila was in class and Nyota slammed the door, relishing its echo in the silence. She was alone. Thank God. Dropping her bag, she slumped down on the bed and let her head fall into her hands.

Inappropriate? He had no right. If her work was good enough, the selection board should have decided what was appropriate, not some rule-bound, up-tight Vulcan dictator. She pictured him, with his condescending tone and ironic half-smiles, and felt like screaming.

His ethics class began in thirty minutes, but there was no way she could sit there and politely discuss the complexities of interspecies morality. Not when he had betrayed her like this.

For the first time in her academic career, Nyota was going to skip class.

Several hours later, Jim Kirk was leaning in the doorway, looking at her. "Oh come on," he said, half an eye on Gaila who was still getting dressed, "you can't just brood here all night. Couple of tequila's and you'll forget all about your stupid conference."

"I'm not brooding," Nyota said, glaring up at the ceiling, "and I'm never drinking tequila again."

He laughed and sauntered into the room, perching himself on the end of her bed. "Has anyone ever told you that you take life too seriously?"

"Has anyone told you that you don't take it seriously enough?"

"Sure," he nodded. "But I didn't take them seriously."

He smiled, but even Kirk's infectious grin wasn't enough to penetrate her mood. "I've got a headache," she said, closing her eyes, willing him and Gaila to be gone. "I'm going to get an early night."

She felt his fingers close around her ankle. "You'll still make it," he said, quietly. "We both will."

Her lips tightened into a thin smile. "Thanks," she said, and meant it. For all his farm boy brashness, Jim Kirk was one of the few people who truly understood her.

That in itself was something of a disturbing truth.

After they'd gone, she spent a couple of hours picking through her thesis and proving to herself, again and again, how damn unfair it was that Spock had denied her the chance to present it to the selection board. She had worked herself into a healthy lather of outrage when someone knocked on her door.

"Gaila's not here," she called out, not bothering to get up from the bed and in no mood for company.

There was silence, and then another knock.

Growling a curse, she hauled herself up and opened the door. "I said— Oh."

To her inexpressible dismay, Commander Spock stood outside her room. She was so surprised, that words fled, leaving her simply staring.

"You were not in class this afternoon," he said after a moment, "I was concerned."

"I— Had a headache."

"I see." He hesitated, cast a quick glance along the corridor, then hurriedly said, "May I come in?"

With no idea why he was there, and not trusting herself to be polite, Nyota said nothing, simply stepped aside and let him enter.

He looked out of place in her room, too large for the space and uncomfortable as he paced over to the window and stared out. Having no explanation for his presence, and no desire to help him, she sat on the corner of her bed and waited. Perhaps he was going to apologize.

"I saw Captain Healy earlier," he said, looking out the window as he spoke. "I had wanted to tell you my decision about the MGC myself."

Irritation rose like bile. "Yes, that would have been polite."

He turned, studying her with his usual dissecting gaze. "You can be under no illusion as to why I found it...impossible to recommend your application to the selection board."

"Can't I?"

He frowned. "Then you _do_ require an explanation?"

"I believe you found my application 'inappropriate'."

His gaze faltered, his eyes darting sideways, then back to her face. "Yes, but— That is, it would have been inappropriate to recommend you given the nature of our relationship."

She stared, baffled by the statement, and before she could say anything else he continued.

"Had an unsuccessful candidate challenged my decision to forward your application to the board, I could not have been certain that my choice was entirely uninfluenced by my feelings for you."

Her mouth opened, but she couldn't speak, a creeping unease crawling up from her stomach. _Feelings_?

"I want you to know," he said, not moving from the window, "that I have fully considered the consequences of such a relationship – I have taken into account the disapprobation of my family, of Vulcan society in general, not to mention the breach of Starfleet regulations. Indeed, in light of so much opposition, I can only consider my pursuit of this relationship to be highly illogical and potentially damaging to my future prospects. Yet I find that I cannot help myself, that I cannot overcome or control this emotion, and so – logically – I have concluded that I must embrace it."

His words hung between them. Outside, laughter drifted around the quad, the world moving on, while inside her room the air congealed into a thick and breathless silence.

Nyota swallowed, anger and mortification forming a hard knot in her chest. "I'm unsure how to respond, Commander." She stood up, hands behind her back, shoulders straight. Formal. "If I've given you reason to believe that I share or return your feelings, then I apologize. It wasn't my intention. Until this morning, I'd considered our relationship to be entirely professional."

His response was no more than a subtle shift of expression, a tightening of the muscles in his face and shoulders. "Until this morning...?"

"When Captain Healy told me that you'd rejected my MGC application for what, I now realize, were highly unprofessional reasons."

A flare of indignation lit his eyes. "I can assure you that my reasons for rejecting your application were entirely professional; only had I _accepted_ it could my choice have been questioned."

"I dispute that, Commander."

"Do you?" He took an angry step forward. "On what grounds?"

"You've just told me the reason you rejected it, and it has nothing to do with the quality of my work."

He was silent, watching her. After a moment, in a heated voice, he said, "And that is all you have to say on the matter? It is a callous dismissal of a genuine emotion."

"Genuine emotion?" She might have laughed had she not been so angry. "It seems your genuine emotion has already damaged _my_ future prospects, Commander, but I'm sure you'll be able to logic it away quick enough to save your own."

"You are angry because I told you why I hesitated?" He took a breath, brow drawn into a frown. "Had I been reckless, charged in without thought of the consequences, no doubt you would have been charmed. But I do not think that way, I cannot act so irrationally."

"Charmed?" This time she did laugh, a sharp bark that gave her no pleasure. "I can assure you, Commander, that there is nothing you could have said or done that would have charmed me. From the first time I saw you, I knew I could never feel anything beyond professional tolerance for such an arrogant, condescending, overcritical —"

"_Kroykah_!" he snapped. "You have said enough. I fully understand your feelings, and can only apologize for having misread them so completely. Where I saw friendship, you saw professional gain; the failing to comprehend that was, no doubt, entirely my own." He stalked past her to the door, stopping with his back to her. In a more controlled voice he said, "You need not fear that this subject will ever again be raised between us. Goodnight, Lieutenant."

And with that he was gone.

7. _Kafusik_ – _adj. _ashamed

Nyota was still awake when Gaila rolled in, somewhere in the small hours of the morning, but she was careful not to give herself away. The last thing she wanted was Gaila's perceptive inquisition, so she kept her eyes closed and her breathing even and waited for her friend to fall asleep. It didn't take long.

But sleep eluded Nyota, her mind running her confrontation with Spock on a perpetual loop. She could still hardly believe it; he'd scuppered her application for the conference simply because he was afraid it might reflect badly on himself! His inappropriate feelings, not her academic status, were to blame. And yet he didn't seem to think she'd care, he thought she'd understand, that she'd welcome his 'feelings' for her!

She was tempted to march straight to Captain Healy's office, protest on the grounds of sexual harassment, and demand that the selection board consider her application anyway. But something stopped her, a slender thread of unease.

_Where I saw friendship, you saw professional gain._

Though she didn't want to admit it, there was truth in that. She _had_ seen professional gain in her association with Spock – from the beginning, she'd been aware of the influence he might have with Pike and had done everything she could to secure his recommendation. If he'd misinterpreted her behavior that was his problem, but she felt enough unease about her own motives and methods to dent her self-righteous anger.

Nothing could clear him of his own unprofessional behavior, but his words brought just enough doubt to question her own.

And she cursed him for that too.

A little after dawn she got up, pulled on her gym clothes, and slipped out of the door. It was a dull, misting morning and the chill seeped beneath her sweatshirt, making her shiver as she crossed the empty quad. A long stretch on the treadmill, she hoped, would ease her nervous energy and give her enough balance to face the day ahead.

She was halfway across the grass when she heard the distant thud of a closing door and quick footfalls, followed a moment later by a voice.

"Lieutenant Uhura."

She froze. It was Spock.

Her first thought was to keep walking, but this was a meeting that had to happen, and better now, while there was no one about, than later in full view of a class. Steeling herself, she plastered on a neutral expression and turned around.

He was stalking toward her across the grass, an old Academy sweatshirt giving him an uncharacteristically disheveled appearance, and the misting rain, that made her hair unmanageable, turning his stark and flat. He looked cold, in every sense of the word.

A couple of meters away, he stopped. "I had hoped to see you this morning," he said, then held something out toward her. "I would be grateful if you looked at this."

It was a hardcopy printout. Nyota frowned. "What is it?"

He tensed, she could see it in the tightening of the muscles around his eyes. "The academic transcripts of the linguistic students I recommended to the MGC board."

"Oh," she said, taking the papers from his hand.

"I trust you will treat them with the confidence they deserve, a confidence I would not have breached had justice not required it." He didn't wait for an answer, simply gave a curt nod and carried on walking, leaving Nyota standing alone in the drizzle.

She stared at the paper, watching the raindrops smudge the ink. He was trying to justify himself, to undo the damage of the previous night's confession, but she wasn't interested. He'd told her why he'd rejected her application, and there was nothing he could say that would convince her she'd not been a victim of the worst kind of injustice.

Tucking the transcripts into her pocket, she carried on toward the gym, determined to ignore them. She made it a whole twenty steps before she pulled them out again, the rain pattering against the paper. Curiosity had always been one of her greatest weaknesses.

_Candidate: Ran Xin Lun_

_Year of study: Fourth year, research doctorate_

_Subject: Neuropsycholinguistics_

She stuffed it back into her pocket and kept on walking. A moment later, it was back out and the rain was turning from a drizzle to a downpour. Her head was thumping and suddenly the bright lights of the gym weren't what she wanted, so she turned a swift one-eighty and began to jog away from the gym and away from the campus.

On a morning like this, _Mubin's_ was the only place to go.

By the time she got there she was wet and cold, but the prospect of _chai_ cheered her immeasurably. She found a table in the corner, far from the windows and the slate-grey sea, peeled off her sweatshirt and sipped her tea. The sugar hit her immediately, the heat seeping through the mug into her hands, and she blew out a long, satisfied sigh. Thank God for _chai_.

Once she'd found her equilibrium, she pulled out the transcripts and smoothed them out on the table. There were three altogether, lists of each candidate's academic achievements, followed by two pages outlining the research they would be presenting at the conference.

Nyota made herself read them all, and with every word she felt a knot tighten in the pit of her stomach. She was objective enough to see that her own work, by comparison, lacked depth – how could an undergraduate thesis compare with doctoral research? – but she still felt that the crux of her thesis carried weight. As meticulous as this research was, it lacked the imaginative connections she had made. It lacked originality.

And while she could concede that recommending her over one of these candidates might have been risky, the fact remained that Spock's choice had been influenced by more than her academic ability. She'd suffered because he'd chosen to play safe, and she couldn't forgive him for it.

Sitting back in her chair she took her mug back into her hands. The _chai_ was cooling and she finished it with a long swallow, before ordering another. She was tired, her sleepless night making her head buzzy, and the thought of the long day ahead was dispiriting. On the plus side, she wouldn't have to face Spock again until prep on Sunday morning – two days away. But how she'd get through _that_ morning she had no idea. Awkward wouldn't even begin to describe it.

A fresh mug of _chai_ arrived, and with it a _mandaazi_. She was about to take a bite, clearing a place for the plate with one hand, when she realized something was written on the back of one of the transcripts. Putting the pastry back down, licking sugar from her fingers, she turned the page over and was startled to see a short passage in Vulcan. Not the Romanized-Vulcan usually taught at the Academy, but an elegant classical script running in three columns from top to bottom of the page. Whatever he'd written, he hadn't wanted it read by casual observers; there were few humans at the Academy who could read classical Vulcan, and she was one of them.

Her heart beat a little faster, pride and dread mixing uneasily.

Pushing the plate to one side, she spread the paper on the table and began to run her finger down the first line, marking the musical swirls and dashes as she went, translating in her head.

It is my hope that the information herein provided will acquit me of the crime—

No, not 'crime', offence.

—_will acquit me of the offence of unprofessional conduct which was last night laid against me. The research conducted by the chosen candidates is demonstrably superior in both scope and depth to your own, which is necessarily limited by the narrow requirements of undergraduate theses. _

She ground her teeth. He couldn't write two lines without insulting her! This was clearly not an apology.

_It must be noted, however, that your thesis demonstrates dynamic and innovative ideas that, if extended through further study, would certainly contribute to the highest levels of linguistic research. _

And, there, a spike of pleasure to add to her already confused emotions. She read on.

_While asserting my innocence in the strongest possible terms, I wish to assure you that I would offer no opposition should you wish to register a complaint of guv-smertaya—_

She frowned – g_uv-smertaya?_ Gender… Gender-harassment? No, sexual harassment.

—_should you wish to register a complaint of sexual harassment with the Academy authorities. _

_It goes without saying that such an action would have no impact on my assessment of you as an officer of outstanding promise._

Here there was a gap between the columns, the next being written in heavier, more emphatic strokes.

_I can end only with the words of Surak; 'there is no other wisdom and no other hope for us but that we grow wise.' _

_It is both my intention and my desire to do so. _

_Please allow me to wish you peace and long life_,

_S'chn T'gai Spock._

It was only when she blew out a breath that she realized she'd been holding it as she read. Sitting back in her chair she stared at the note, letting the swirls and curlicues blur together as she processed the words.

_S'chn T'gai Spock._

That must be his full name, his family name. She made a few silent attempts at mouthing the words, but soon gave up. Unpronounceable.

Peace and long life – s_ochya eh dif_ – was a standard greeting, but almost always used as a farewell.

As for the rest… She reached for her _chai_, closed her eyes and breathed in the fragrant steam. As for the rest, she had no idea, but in two days they would be face to face and by then, she knew, she had to have an answer.

Nyota did everything possible to ensure that she didn't run into Spock before their meeting – and she suspected he was doing the same, because she didn't see a glimpse of him. But Sunday dawned all too soon, brash and bright, and there was no escaping the meeting.

Deliberately, she chose to wear her uniform despite the fact that their preparation sessions were informal; it would send a signal that even he couldn't misinterpret. But as she crossed the quad towards the computer science building, the words she must say to him were running, unformed through her head.

_I hope we can work professionally together…_

_Let's put this misunderstanding behind us…_

She sighed. Her biggest fear was that he would raise the subject, despite his promise, and that he'd want to justify himself. Perhaps she should at least tell him she wouldn't be filing any kind of complaint. But that meant talking about it, and that was the last thing she wanted to do.

Damn. She should have sent him an email, just a note along those lines. What was she thinking, leaving it until this morning when she'd have to say it all out loud?

The computer science building loomed ahead, its morning shadow swamping her as she walked up the steps. Nerves bunched in her stomach, tingled in her fingertips. In her memory she could still see his face, impassive but for the gleam of indignation in his eyes, and then again the following morning, cold and rain-damp. Bleak.

At the end of the corridor she paused, summoned her courage, and walked with quick, sure steps to his office. The door was closed, which was unusual. Still…

She pressed the door chime and waited.

There was no answer.

She pressed again, waited again, and there was still no answer.

The third time she pressed, the chime coincided with a bleep signaling the arrival of a message on her PADD. With a sinking feeling, she pulled it out of her bag and opened her inbox. If he was dropping her as his TA…

But it wasn't a message from Spock, it was from Captain Healy – a curt request to come to her office, immediately.

Nyota swallowed.

She didn't run, but somehow she was still a little breathless by the time she arrived outside Healy's office. The door was open and Nyota took a steadying breath before she stepped inside; she'd half expected to see Spock there, waiting.

Healy was alone, however, at her desk and beetle-browed over her computer. She glanced up when Nyota said hello, but didn't smile.

"I meant to contact you last night," Healy said, waving her toward a seat, "but it slipped my mind."

Not knowing how to answer, Nyota said nothing and waited.

Healy shuffled some papers on her desk, then glanced up with a slight smile. "I'm afraid you're stuck with me for the rest of the semester."

Still not understanding, she frowned. "What do you mean?"

"I'm taking over the phonology class—" She cocked her head. "Oh, Spock didn't tell you? Perhaps he didn't have time."

"Tell me what?" Her mouth was unaccountably dry, her patience paper thin.

"No need to look so worried," Healy said with a faint smile. "Commander Spock requested a period of personal leave prior to taking up his duties on the _Enterprise_."

"Oh," was all she could muster.

"It's left us in something of a jam," Healy said, frowning back down at her papers, "but we'll muddle through; he was only doing me a favor anyway, taking this class. They're not too happy over in computer sciences however…"

Holding her breath, Nyota said, "Did he…give a reason?"

"Nope." Healy shook her head, still studying the papers on her desk – schedules, Nyota realized. "I didn't pry, he's a very private man, and if the Academy agreed his leave then who am I to argue?" With a sigh, she pushed the schedules aside and sat back in her chair. "He did, however, leave comprehensive notes and told me that you were more than able to do almost all the prep work yourself – which would be a great help, considering my other commitments." Healy smiled. "That's a compliment, by the way."

"I'd be happy to do it," she said, though it was proving difficult to focus past the fact that he was gone – and that she was afraid it was because of her.

"Good," Healy said, and pushed a PADD toward her. "These are the commander's notes for the next couple of classes. Let me know if you have any trouble. Oh, and let's make an appointment now to go over some comments I have on your thesis; the section on prosody is given too much weight, and I'd like to see you qualify some of your assertions about its significance."

Her hand froze on the PADD.

"Nyota?"

She jerked back into motion. "Sorry, I was— Commander Spock had made the same comment."

"Yes, I remember. He was impressed by your work."

She almost laughed. "I doubt it."

"A critique does not imply criticism, Nyota, you should understand the difference by now." Tight lipped and harassed, Healy turned to her screen. "Right, when can we meet?"

Time passed. The semester crawled on toward summer, and Nyota seemed to spend most of it shuttling between the library and Captain Healy's office. Her thesis was finished, bar the last proof read, and she had to admit it was stronger for the changes she had made. She was proud of it, though it didn't gleam quite so bright in her mind as it had once done. She could see now where her research could be deepened, where, if she'd chosen an academic path, she could develop her embryonic ideas into something truly worthy of attention by her peers.

Meanwhile, her workload for the phonology class increased, and she even taught a couple of classes, but for some reason the experience felt flatter than she'd expected. Her students were dull, their discussion formulaic and unchallenging.

Everything tasted a little blander than it should and she was at a loss to explain why. However, graduation wasn't far off and she wondered if she was mentally moving on – readying herself to say farewell to the Academy and to embrace the adventure to come.

Gaila, by contrast, was now consumed by Jim Kirk – to a level Nyota found disturbing. And Jim Kirk was consumed by beating the _Kobayashi Maru_ simulation.

"You just watch," he said with that cocksure grin of his. "There's no way those computer science geeks can out strategize Jim Kirk."

That earned him a thump from Gaila. "Are you calling me a geek?"

Kirk just smiled and slipped his arm around her waist.

Nyota found herself spending less time with Gaila and her other friends as the weeks continued, busying herself with her work and her plans for life after graduation. And it was only at night, when sleep eluded her, that she permitted herself to run over the strange end to her association with Commander Spock.

The transcripts she had long ago destroyed, but for unexamined reasons she kept his note. The few lines of Vulcan script were committed to memory now, and she often ran over them as she lay in the dark.

_There is no other wisdom and no other hope for us but that we grow wise. _

_It is both my intention and my desire to do so. _

It was an apology, she realized – an admission of his mistake and a promise to learn from it. There was something gracious about it; despite all she'd said that night, he'd mastered the very human anger she'd seen in his eyes.

_Please allow me to wish you peace and long life_.

That one had driven her back to her second year notes, and, yes, it was specifically a farewell. He'd known he was leaving when he'd written the note, which meant he'd decided to go the night of their argument. Nyota made no claims about her own powers of deductive reasoning, but it didn't take a genius to make the connection – he'd left because of what happened that night. At first she'd felt contempt that he would run away and not face her, but as the weeks wore on and the note he'd written grew fragile from folding and unfolding, she began to suspect that it was not her he was fleeing at all, but his own sense of shame.

And, somewhere in those weeks, her contempt softened to pity. Arrogance and inappropriateness aside, he had confessed to feelings that must be alien to the Vulcan mind – and she'd shot him down without mercy, fuelled by what she now realized was a completely unjustified resentment.

Her thesis was not as good as she'd imagined – it had the potential to be, given a couple more years hard study, but that was all. Potential. Spock had seen that, and she'd resented him for telling her the truth.

And somewhere along the way, pity dissolved into compassion.

These circular thoughts, however, were interrupted one morning as she stepped into Captain Healy's office and found the captain smiling at her.

"Take a seat," she said, her smile turning into a grin. "I have some news for you."

Nyota did as she was told, but the captain's grin was contagious and she felt her stomach knot with a sudden excitement. "What news?"

"As you know, the _Enterprise_ is being commissioned shortly. Prior to that, a Vulcan delegation will be touring the fleet yards as part of the transition between their Ambassadors to Earth. Ambassador Sarek will be returning to Vulcan, and Ambassador Kelov assuming the role in his place." Healy sat down opposite. "Now, originally, Commander Spock was due to attend as part of the Academy delegation, however, in his absence, Captain Pike will be attending. Unfortunately-" she smiled "-or fortunately, for you, Captain Pike can't speak a word of Vulcan. He is, therefore, in need of an interpreter and has requested you. By name."

Her heart gave a fierce kick. "He knows my name?"

Healy smiled. "The delegation arrives tomorrow, and you need to report to the fleet yards at 1400 hours today for briefings."

She shot to her feet. "Yes sir!"

"Be prepared to stay a couple of nights, these things can drag on." Her smile turned wry. "I guess I'm teaching this week's class, huh?"

Nyota couldn't swallow her smile. "I guess so."

With a chuckle, Healy sent her on her way and Nyota wasn't entirely sure if her feet touched the ground between the linguistics building and her dorm. She was packed in ten minutes, a note scribbled for Gaila, and then she was heading for the hangers.

The fleet yards were noisy and hectic, a far cry from the rarified atmosphere of the Academy. Engineers, officers, and crewmen bustled about, paying the group of cadets little attention; this was the real world, this was where she longed to be.

She'd visited the yards a couple of times before, of course, for zero G training and her basic piloting assessment, but never before had the _Enterprise_ been docked, and her eyes had been glued to the window of the shuttle as they docked.

And, oh, how beautiful she was – all sleek lines and power. Nyota got goose bumps just remembering.

She loved every trip to the yards, loved seeing the operational crews in their reds, and golds, and blues – loved their easy confidence and hoped that, one day, she'd be able to walk the decks of her own ship with just such assurance. But this trip was different, this time there was a buzz of excitement as they prepared for the delegation, and this time she wasn't just there as a cadet, gawping at the sights. She had a purpose, a role. And Captain Pike knew her by name.

The briefing room was narrow, with short rows of chairs from front to back, and Nyota took her place as close to the podium as possible. There was no sign of Captain Pike, but an officer in operational uniform sat at the front and studied a PADD as the rest of the Starfleet delegation arrived.

Nyota couldn't stop smiling.

Her stomach flipped over and she willed the rest of the personnel to arrive so that it could all begin.

At last – it felt like an age – the doors at the back of the room were shut and the officer at the front stood up.

Silence fell.

"Welcome, my name is Lieutenant Commander Dryson," he said, tugging down his gold shirt. "I'm responsible for cultural liaison here at the San Francisco Fleet Yards and this afternoon we're going to be going over tomorrow's proceedings, as well as a few of the dos and don'ts in regard to our honored guests." He lifted his PADD. "You should all have been sent a copy of the schedule, take note of where you need to be and when – lateness will not be tolerated."

Nyota paid close attention as he spoke, scrolling through the schedule on her own PADD, making note of where she was required. She couldn't help a surge of disappointment when she realized that she'd not be accompanying the delegation to the bridge, she was needed to take a group to engineering instead. Still, maybe there'd be time for her to take a peek when—

The lights dimmed and a screen behind Dryson filled with the image of an umber planet, shrouded in a light, swirling atmosphere.

"Vulcan," Dryson said. "Anyone been there on vacation?"

There was a smattering of laughter and no raised hands.

"Right, not top of our list of vacation hot spots. Although, it _is_ hot – very, with a thin atmosphere and heavy gravity. Anyone ever met a Vulcan?"

A few hands went up, including Nyota's.

"Okay, not including our own Commander Spock, anyone ever met a Vulcan?"

Nyota lowered her hand, as did almost all the others.

Dryson smiled. "Yeah, so despite being one of the founders of the Federation, the Vulcans are an insular lot," he said. "And for good reason."

The image changed to show a city of sweeping arches and buttresses, clawing its way out of the rocky planet, industrial and distinctly alien. Nyota shivered; it possessed a harsh beauty that she found compelling. "Shi-Kahr, one of Vulcan's primary cities," Dryson said, "and home to Ambassador Sarek, who will be visiting us tomorrow.

"The physicality of Vulcan has shaped its people," he continued. "Pointy ears and green blood aside, they are stronger, heavier, and faster than you or I. They are also – and listen up, because this is important – they are also telepathic."

Nyota started, glancing around to see her surprise mirrored on the faces of her companions.

"Now that's not something they advertise, and you don't need to worry about them reading your mind across a crowded room and pulling your bank details out of your head. Vulcan's are touch-telepaths, which means they need to be in physical contact to establish a telepathic link – skin to skin. For that reason, and this is what you need to know, it's considered extremely invasive to touch a Vulcan without invitation. Unless they're given a moment to establish a mental barrier, and because we don't practice the same mental disciplines they do, skin to skin contact exposes your thoughts to their mind."

An uneasy sensation curled into Nyota's chest – a flash of memory.

"This is especially true," Dryson continued, "in regard to the hand. The touching of hands in Vulcan culture is codified and exceptionally significant – it's tantamount to a kiss. You could compare walking up to a Vulcan and grabbing his hand to walking up to a human and planting one on his lips."

Amusement rippled around the room, but it stopped dead when it met Nyota.

She had grabbed his hand – _He's proud of you now, I'm sure – _and she vividly remembered that cold pause, the stiff way he had withdrawn his hand.

Only maybe it hadn't been cold, maybe it had been awkward. Maybe he'd just been embarrassed.

"Now," Dryson continued, "the Vulcans in this delegation understand that a human handshake isn't a come on, and no doubt they'll have their mental shields up, but nevertheless – out of courtesy – please refrain from offering your hand to, or otherwise coming into physical contact with, our guests."

A heat was creeping into Nyota's face, her heart thumping in her chest, and she suddenly felt an angry kind of sympathy – how difficult it must be for him to live among humans and their casual ignorance, and yet why hadn't he _said_ something? He spent his whole time with his hands clenched behind his back, probably to avoid exactly the kind of thing she'd done, and he never once explained why!

"Now this," Dryson said, holding a long, slender two-pronged fork in the air, "is a _snauk_."

A snigger followed, which he permitted with a nod and half a smile.

"Yes, yes, funny word. However, at tomorrow night's reception each and every one of you will have a _snauk_ in your hand and you will not be letting go. Understood?"

There was a flutter of curiosity.

Dryson smiled. "Handshakes are one thing, and almost forgivable, but touching food with your hands? No. No, no, no. Do I make myself clear?"

Curiosity dissolved into an attentive silence and Nyota felt a little sick.

_I would prefer to use a knife and fork…_

"Vulcans never touch food with their hands – it's a cultural taboo that you cannot break. To Vulcan sensibilities it's as disgusting as, say, blowing your nose into your hand and wiping it on your shirt."

She closed her eyes, trying to banish the memory. When in Rome, Commander…

But the memory wouldn't leave, she could still see his slightly averted gaze, the precise way he lifted the chapatti from the plate with his fork. She'd thought him rude and judgmental, but now all she could think was, _I should have known. I should have known this_.

And with that thought came a wash of emotion that felt like chagrin; for all his Vulcan arrogance, she had been the one judging him by human standards and finding him wanting. His criticism of her work had colored all her opinions and now, seeing him in this new light, she understood how juvenile and resentful she'd been.

The briefing ended soon after and she left the room deep in thought. Though she didn't regret turning him down, she did find herself ashamed of some of her wilder accusations – she was pretty sure she remembered calling him unfeeling and unprofessional. Her face heated at the memory. Should she contact him, send a message to apologize for what she'd said? Or was it best just left alone, water under the bridge? Who knew if she'd ever see him again? But it wasn't in her nature to leave things unfinished. Nyota Uhura had never been a coward, and if she felt something needed to be done then she would do it – however uncomfortable it made her feel.

She was so deep in thought that she wasn't paying attention as they were led through the yards toward the _Enterprise_, but not even her nascent guilt could spoil the moment she stepped aboard. As she walked onto the pristine ship for the first time she inhaled deeply and knew, with more certainty than ever, that this was where she was meant to be.

Everything about the ship was perfect, from her gleaming technology to the quiet efficiency of the personnel going about their duties. Nyota ran her fingers along the smooth wall of the corridor as she was led past the ship's gymnasium to her temporary quarters, and even they were perfect.

She sat on the edge of the bed, alone, listening to the quiet hum of the ship's power systems. Like a pulse it subtly shifted in tone, her sensitized hearing picking out a cyclical rhythm, like the hush of the ocean against the shore. It was solid and comforting and when she climbed into bed she let it lull her toward sleep.

But guilty memories plagued her and when she dreamed it was of dark, piercing eyes and the touching of hands across the void.

***


	4. Chapter 4

8. _Kah'ru_ – _v. _to learn

Nyota woke early the next morning from a restless sleep. It was five o'clock Academy time – which was also ship's time – and she didn't need to be on duty until eight.

Her quarters were too small to exercise, and her nervous energy demanded an outlet; if she sat on the edge of her bed, waiting and thinking for three hours, she might chew off her own fingers. So instead she pulled on her shorts and tank top and decided to check out the ship's gymnasium. An hour on the treadmill was exactly what she needed to get rid of her adrenaline.

This early, the ship's corridors were empty – there were only a few of them staying aboard anyway – but there was nothing eerie about the silence. The ship's quiet hum kept her company as she made her way toward the gym she'd been shown the previous evening, the doors opening with a swish at her approach.

Inside was a small reception area, with lockers, and beyond that a corridor off which branched several different rooms – a couple of courts marked out for both racquetball and parrises squares, a weights room, and a cardiovascular suite. But it was the room at the end that drew her eye, because the light was on and she could hear the squeak-thud of someone exercising. A punch bag rattled and someone landed with a soft thud, measured and controlled.

Curious, she made her way to the end of the corridor and peered around the door.

The punch bag was swaying wildly, its attacker preparing for another assault, shaking out the muscles in his arms. Tall, she thought, muscular. Sweat soaked a V into the back of his vest, glistening across bare shoulders. He ran, long powerful strides, then launched himself into the air, twisted and slammed both feet into the bag. Landing in a crouch, he twisted to his feet and hit the rebounding bag with enough power to shatter bone.

He bit off a curse, shaking out his hand, and she only recognized the words as Vulcan in the same moment she noticed the ears. Perhaps she made a sound, a sharp intake of breath, because he turned with his injured hand half raised – and froze.

Shock reeled across his face, unchecked. It was Spock.

Words fled. She could do nothing but stand and stare, watching his grazed knuckles well with blood. Green blood, alien and strange.

"What are you doing here?" he blurted, then frowned. "I mean— I had not— Why are you here?"

"The delegation," she managed to say, his discomfort forcing her to master her scattered thoughts. "I'm acting as an interpreter."

"Oh." He frowned again, then seemed to notice his bleeding knuckle and quickly brought it to his lips. "Forgive me, I am not—"

"Captain Healy said you wouldn't be here," she interrupted. "That's why Captain Pike asked for me, but if you're here then I don't need to—"

"No." His hands retreated behind his back, but he couldn't quite pull off the impassive stance with sweat-damp hair pushed back from his face and his chest rising and falling so fast. His voice, however, regained some of its usual composure. "I am not here in an official capacity, merely on a personal basis." He hesitated, then said, "My parents are among the Vulcan delegation."

"Oh." She could think of nothing else to say.

Apparently, neither could he, because after a moment he crossed the gym and picked up a towel, pressing it once to his face, then letting it fall. "I should— Excuse me." Saying no more, he walked past her and left.

The punch bag was still reeling; she knew how it felt.

***

A ten minute sonic shower was not enough to calm his tumultuous thoughts, indeed he suspected that an hour's deep meditation would be inadequate, but ten minutes was all the time he had and so it must suffice.

She was here, aboard the _Enterprise._ This was a fact. Nyota Uhura was aboard the _Enterprise_ and eight weeks of careful mental discipline was in danger of crumbling in the face of that unforeseen event.

He had not expected to see her and yet the reason for her presence was entirely logical – one he should have predicted had he given due consideration to the consequences of his departure from the Academy. But, of course, he had not given it any consideration whatsoever. For only the second time in his life he had acted on a whim, one motivated by those twin provocations of his childhood over which he still had insufficient control: rejection and contempt. In her eyes, that night, he had seen the same disdain he had known all his life, her rebuff given disproportionate weight because it came on top of past rejections.

_Arrogant, condescending, overcritical_ – those had been her words, but he had seen others in her expression: alien, different, strange. He had always been too human for his childhood peers, and it appeared that he was too Vulcan for Nyota Uhura. There was pain in that, raw wounds cutting through his self-control, but he would master it as he had mastered all the other pains and rejections of his life. And he would triumph.

His father called him a child of two worlds. Spock considered it a peculiarly romantic notion, one that demonstrated his father's failure to understand that, in truth, he was a child of none. He was always alien, always alone – misunderstood and always misunderstanding.

That he could have so badly misjudged Uhura's feelings toward him was a matter of unmitigated shame for which he blamed himself entirely. The complexity of human interaction continued to elude him, and he should have known better than to trust his poor instinct in the matter; what he had experienced as a spark of attraction, she had experienced as a spark of discord. The difference between the two was too subtle for him to distinguish, and the result of his failure had been a devastating humiliation.

Her presence here, among the delegation, was difficult. However, it also presented an opportunity he had not previously considered possible. Though entertaining no thought of changing her feelings toward him, he hoped that he might be able to explain himself more fully. There was a high probability that she would be assigned to the _Enterprise_ and, therefore, it was imperative that their mutual discomfort be erased. It was his hope that, by understanding him better, her dislike could be softened into ambivalence, and that they could work together without further incident.

His own feelings, turbulent as they were, would never again be made public. With the application of the right discipline they would, in time, be integrated into his consciousness and cease to hold any power over his actions – he hoped that time would come quickly, for the effort required to maintain control was considerable.

By the time he was dressed, his mind was resolved. During the time she was here, he would make it his objective to explain himself to Lieutenant Uhura. It was a logical decision, based entirely on the probability that they may soon be working together. It had nothing whatsoever to do with pandering to a hope that, through understanding him better, she might come to value him more highly.

Such a hope would be futile, given the strength of her opinion, and indulging it would be irrational and damaging to his emotional stability.

So he did not hope as he left his quarters and headed for the mess hall, and he chose to ignore the unsettled sensation in the pit of his stomach.

He was probably simply hungry.

***

Nyota forced down coffee and half a croissant, knowing she had to eat something despite her stomach's queasy protests. And though she had to report for duty in half an hour, her thoughts returned again and again to Spock instead of the technical translation of the ship's systems.

She had never seen him more disconcerted or less Vulcan than she had that morning; his shock at first seeing her had been disarmingly human. And the way he had brought his injured hand to his lips, the sweat soaking into his shirt, the aggression in the way he'd attacked the punch bag – they were all hard to reconcile with the man she knew.

The man she thought she knew.

It was ridiculous to imagine that Vulcans didn't exercise, or fight, or injure themselves – especially a Vulcan who had graduated from Starfleet Academy and must have passed all the same physical assessments as herself – and yet seeing him so _real_ overturned some of her most firmly held beliefs about him.

He hadn't looked like the pedantic professor, the type to be in bed by ten o'clock clutching a Starfleet manual. He'd looked like something else entirely – something she suspected he took great pains to hide. Something dynamic, potent, and not a little dangerous.

It was unnerving.

Confusing.

And she didn't know what she felt, only that her stomach was twisted tight and unwilling to accept either the coffee or the croissant. Leaving them both, she got up from her table and headed for the door, keen to get to her duties and put the morning's encounter out of her mind.

Fate, however, had other plans, for just as she was leaving, in walked the object of her musing.

He was in uniform, not the dour dress uniform of the Academy, but the blue operational shirt of a science officer. It made him appear younger, less severe, and reminded her again that this was his ship – that, above everything else, he was Pike's first officer. He already belonged where she only aspired to tread.

Her stomach tightened further.

She was expecting to exchange a quick, embarrassed nod as they passed, but to her utter surprise he slowed and said, "Good morning, Lieutenant. I was hoping to talk with you before the delegation arrives."

He's going to ask me to leave, she thought. He's going to suggest that he takes over my role here and—

"I was very surprised to see you this morning," he said, and his earlier discomfort lingered in the shadows of his words. "I apologize if I seemed unwelcoming; I hope the _Enterprise_ is all you had imagined?"

Nyota stared. "Yes," she managed at last, "it's beautiful. Amazing."

"I concur." He was silent and around them she was aware of eyes being turned in their direction; aboard the _Enterprise_, she supposed, Spock drew people's attention. Or perhaps he always had, and she'd just never noticed. After a moment, hands held firmly behind his back, he said, "I will be attending the reception for the Vulcan delegation this evening, and I wondered..." Here his voice seemed to fail and he took a breath. "My mother will be there and I would like to introduce her to you; she has an interest in xenolinguistics and was intrigued by the ideas in your thesis."

Nyota blinked, unsure what was more surprising – that he wanted to introduce her to his mother, that his mother knew anything about her thesis, or that he was talking to her at all!

His gaze slipped away from hers, lips pressing tight, and she realized her hesitation looked like reluctance. Quickly she said, "I'd be honored, Commander."

He took a breath, and she noticed the rise and fall of his chest in a way she'd never done before. "Thank you, Lieutenant. And may I wish you well today – I hope the dignitaries do not cause you too much aggravation."

"Aggravation?" Despite everything, his choice of word made her smile. "Is that likely?"

His expression was entirely composed, but for an ironic tilt of his eyebrow. "They _are_ members of the Vulcan Science Academy, Lieutenant, aggravation is in their nature."

Not knowing how to answer, she simply said, "I'll bear that in mind," and with a nod he left her to her thoughts.

It was fortunate, because her thoughts were many and varied – not the least of which being that the trace of humor in his eyes had rendered them disconcertingly attractive.

Two hours later, up to her neck in cold-faced Vulcan demands, Uhura understood Spock's cryptic warning perfectly; aggravating didn't even begin to cover the attitude of the Vulcan delegation.

For a start, it became apparent very quickly that they could all speak perfect Standard – they just preferred not to. They were making a point, she realized, and she was reminded of her mother's attitude to the Federation's _lingua franca_. Her mother, however, would have made her point with a smile.

As a consequence of their linguistic skill, she was doubly aware of any failings in her own translation; not only did she have to speak perfect Vulcan, but they would know how faithfully she had interpreted the words of the Starfleet personnel. The fact that her group was made up of engineers touring the _Enterprise's_ engineering department only made her problems worse; technical translation was always the hardest.

Perhaps, she thought sourly, Spock had had good reason to back out of this little assignment.

Her group was comprised of three members of the Vulcan Science Academy – two women and a man. The man was as terse as any of his race, sharp faced and critical when he did speak. The women were worse, clearly thinking better of themselves than of anything they saw aboard the _Enterprise_. To Uhura they paid little attention, giving her as much consideration as they might a PADD or the ship's computer. She was grateful they kept their critical comments only for the _Enterprise_ – she dreaded to think what they might have to say about her Vulcan pronunciation.

By the time she'd returned them to the rest of their delegation, her head was aching and she was glad to be dismissed and given a couple of hours to rest before the evening's reception.

Relaxation, however, was beyond her power because the reception meant a whole new set of headaches. And as she gazed at herself in her quarters' small mirror, she wasn't sure whether the tingle of her nerves was caused by dread, or by something else entirely.

9. _T'var'eth_ – _n.( offens.)_ whelp, undisciplined youth

The reception was being held in _Enterprise's_ mess hall, an uncomfortable gathering of polite smiles and dull conversation. Music played, a bland and inoffensive undertone to the quiet chatter and muted laughter.

Nyota might have been bored had she been there only for the music or the conversation. But the thrill of the _Enterprise_ was still fresh, and there was plenty going on beneath the placid surface of the event.

Ambassador Sarek stood in stiff-backed conversation with the Starfleet top brass, his retinue scattered in loose formation around him. Nyota recognized the three engineers she'd been with all day, the two women both hovering close to the Ambassador in a manner that translated easily despite the species divide; they were drawn to power like moths to a flame, and Sarek burned brightest in this room. She wondered what they wanted – a promotion, funding for a pet project? It was an interesting question; what _did_ Vulcans want?

On the other side of the room, close to the buffet table – a table bristling with slender, two-pronged Vulcan forks – a knot of people had gathered around another of the Vulcan delegation. Among them, she saw the blue shirt and straight shoulders of Commander Spock.

As if feeling his eyes on her – and she wondered briefly about his telepathic abilities – he looked up. Their eyes met and held, then he looked away and murmured something to the Vulcan woman at his side, before crossing the room toward Nyota. He walked with purpose and without haste, as deliberate in this as in everything else, and stopped a short distance away.

"Lieutenant."

"Commander."

"I trust your day was successful?"

Her smile was mostly nervous as she said, "It was interesting, but you'd have to ask T'Prek and Tarvik regarding its success."

"I think," he said, his gaze slipping briefly away in a gesture that looked almost subversive, "I shall reserve that pleasure for another time."

Her own attention flickered to the two women, still hovering around Sarek. "They're an ambitious pair."

"An astute observation." He cast her a look she could only call approving. "They would be mortified to be so easily comprehended by a human."

There had been a time, not many weeks earlier, when she would have heard an insult in his words. Now she heard only irony. What she didn't understand, however, was whether he was being more open or she was becoming more discerning. Either way, the comment earned him a smile. "Vulcans are not so inscrutable as you might think, Commander."

He answered that only with a briefly inclined head and said, "Would now be an opportune moment to introduce you to my mother?"

"Yes," she said, still smiling. "Although – I don't want to make a mistake. How should I address her?" She laughed, self conscious, as she said, "I know better than to try and shake her hand."

"I believe she would not be averse to shaking hands," Spock said in a tone that was not as flat as usual. There was something else in it, but she wasn't sure what – unease, humor, anticipation? She couldn't quite make it out, and because they were now walking side by side she couldn't get a proper look at his face. "And you may call her by her given name – indeed, she would prefer it so."

He stopped talking as they approached the small group of other Starfleet personnel gathered around his mother. Most drifted away as Spock said, "Mother, may I introduce you to a...former student and colleague of mine? Lieutenant Uhura."

Spock's mother smiled, the expression so surprising that Nyota found herself lost for words.

"Lieutenant," Spock continued, "this is my mother, Amanda Grayson."

"It's a pleasure to meet you," his mother said, holding out her hand.

After a moment, Nyota took it. "Thank you," she managed, "it's an honor." But her confused gaze was drawn to the woman's ears, to her brow, then back to the formal Vulcan clothing.

Amanda Grayson laughed. "Yes," she said, "I _am_ human." She turned sparkling eyes on her son. "Spock, you could have warned the girl!"

"I did not consider it required a warning, here of all places."

Amanda's eyes narrowed. "You thought no such thing." She batted his arm in affectionate reprimand, then turned her attention back to Nyota who was watching the exchange in utter disbelief.

Spock's mother was human? _He_ was as human as he was Vulcan?

Another edifice of preconception was crumbling in her mind – his Vulcan arrogance, his unfeeling condescension… Despite everything else she had learned, the one thing she'd believed absolutely was that he felt himself superior to humans.

"I've heard a lot about you, Lieutenant," Amanda said, interrupting her thoughts. "I understand you're a gifted linguist and speak flawless Vulcan."

"I…" She looked at Spock, but his gaze was studiously averted. "Not flawless, by any stretch. My pronunciation is, I'm told, too inflective."

Amanda smiled. "I've been living on Vulcan for almost thirty years, and Sarek still says I sound like a Romulan spice merchant."

Nyota couldn't hide her surprise. "Romulan…?"

"I consider it a compliment," she said with a significant smile that Nyota didn't fully understand. Then, in what sounded like flawless Vulcan, she added, "_Dom!_ _Nam-tor ri thrap wilat nem-tor rim, ha?_"

So! There is no offence where none is taken, yes?

Nyota smiled. "_Rim_," she agreed. None.

"Mother?" Spock interrupted, "Will you excuse me? I believe Captain Pike requires some assistance."

Pike, Nyota saw, was besieged by her threesome of engineers and his back was, literally, to the wall.

"Well, don't be long, _ashalik_," Amanda said, touching his hand. "I would speak with you later."

"_Ha, Mai'h_." He glanced at Nyota. "Excuse me, Lieutenant."

Amanda watched him leave, her expression fond – yet tinted with something else. She sighed. "Children," she said, "are meant to worry you less the older they get, and yet I find that the opposite is true."

Nyota followed Amanda's gaze, watching Spock insert himself between Pike and the Vulcan engineers. They stepped back, and even Nyota noticed the way their posture stiffened. Pike, on the other hand, looked as if the cavalry had arrived.

"First Officer of the _Enterprise_ is an amazing achievement," she said, unsure what else to say. "Especially so young. You must be very proud."

"Always," Amanda said, still watching her son.

Nyota was suddenly struck by memories of her own mother, of how hard it must be to have her daughter so far away – and wanting to go further, and for longer. A five year mission of discovery… It was a big sacrifice she was demanding of her parents, and until that moment she hadn't really understood the consequences of her ambition. "Five years," she said, hesitating in case she was treading on sensitive ground, "is a long time, isn't it?"

Amanda smiled. "And they say only Vulcans are telepathic." She turned her eyes on Nyota. "I'll miss him, and I'm afraid…" She shook her head. "It's a long time for him to be alone."

"Alone?"

"A mother's conceit, perhaps," she admitted. "Sometimes I feel that I'm the only one who truly understands him."

Nyota let her gaze return to Spock, who now stood alone with Captain Pike. The other Vulcans had moved away, and that, combined with their reaction to his arrival, prompted a nasty suspicion. "I often wondered why he chose to join Starfleet," she said, which wasn't strictly true. She'd never wondered about it at all – until now. But as she watched him standing there in his uniform, so bright against the drab clothes of the Vulcan delegation, she found herself consumed by the question.

"It might surprise you," Amanda said, "to know that he joined Starfleet in a fit of pique."

"Pique?" She was right, it was almost unbelievable. "Spock?"

"He felt…" Nyota didn't miss the deliberate use of that word. "…he felt insulted by the Vulcan Science Academy, and so he turned them down." There was no concealing the pride in Amanda's voice, or the undertow of ironic humor Nyota had recently noticed in her son. "To say that they were slighted would be to considerably understate their reaction."

She longed to know what kind of insult would drive him to do such a thing, but she couldn't bring herself to ask. Amanda Grayson was a very open, forthcoming woman, but Nyota felt her right to pry into Spock's life was limited. And yet she burned to know. Instead, all she said was, "I never had the Commander down as a rebel."

"Neither did he," Amanda smiled. "But he can't help himself – despite his best efforts, he's only half Vulcan. Sometimes his human responses get the better of him – and that's not always a bad thing."

Nyota shook her head. "He seems so very Vulcan – at least, to my eyes."

"I'm sure he takes care that he does."

"It's an act then?" She glanced over once more to where he stood, hands clasped behind his back, face impassive.

"Not an act," Amanda corrected, and as she spoke Spock's gaze flickered slightly toward Nyota; he knew they were talking about him. "But an effort, a deliberate choice. His physiology is different, you see. The emotional control all Vulcans practice doesn't come so easily – his mind simply isn't wired that way – and sometimes the control breaks down. Not so much now, but as a child…" She chuckled. "The boy could throw a tantrum like you've never seen!"

"I can't imagine," Nyota said, still looking at him, waiting for another subtle flicker of his eyes in her direction. "I didn't think Vulcans experienced emotions that way."

Amanda made a soft noise, a snort of disdain. "That's what they'd like you to think, but the truth is the reverse; they experience them just as intensely, if not more intensely, than us. But their minds are different, they're capable of instantly comprehending feelings it would take the average human a year of therapy to understand." She paused, then said, "They're actually more aware of their emotions than we are, and it's that which gives them so much control – we humans are enslaved by our passions, but Vulcans are their master. Most of the time."

_Most of the time_… She remembered his face during their dreadful encounter in her room, the tension that had looked like anger and indignation. Could it have been something else? Hurt, embarrassment, disappointment?

"But Spock is only half Vulcan," Amanda continued, "and he can't process emotions like his father can – and he's only half human, so he can't release them like I can. He's stuck between the two, and I'm afraid it's a lonely place to be. That's why I'd hoped…" She sighed, drawing Nyota's eyes back to her. "When he joined Starfleet, I'd hoped he'd find the friendship there that he never found on Vulcan, but…"

There was a question in the unfinished sentence, one Nyota couldn't answer – at least, not in the way she suspected Amanda Grayson wanted. "I think," she said slowly, "that many humans find him…complex."

"And he finds many humans complex in return." Amanda smiled and touched Nyota's arm, a gesture of understanding. "But listen to me running on about my son. What I really wanted to talk about was your linguistic theories…"

Nyota doubted that, but appreciated the change of subject. It gave her a chance to think. In the rubble of her crumbled preconceptions, a new image of Commander Spock was being built – one very different and very intriguing…

One she wasn't sure what to do with.

Later, after what turned out to be a deep and thorough discussion of her thesis, Spock returned and Nyota watched with guarded fascination as Amanda slipped her arm through his. "Were your ears burning, _ashalik_?"

"No more than expected."

Amanda smiled, resting her head lightly against his shoulder, before straightening and releasing his arm. Her expression changed. "Your father," she said, and Spock's eyes moved to somewhere past Nyota's shoulder.

She turned in time to see Ambassador Sarek approach, T'Prek and Tarvik gliding in his wake. It took a moment for Nyota to understand that Spock's father was, in fact, the illustrious Ambassador to Earth. She shot Spock a look, but his attention was elsewhere – turned inward in a manner she'd never seen before. He was bracing himself.

"_T'nar pak sorat y'rani__**,**__ sa-fu_," Sarek said, the most formal of Vulcan greetings.

"_T'nar jaral__**,**_" Spock replied in kind. Then, in Standard, added, "I trust you are well, Father."

Sarek's gaze slid over Spock's uniform. "I am well."

Silence fell, the tension sharp and cold. Not knowing where to look, and feeling that she was intruding on something personal, Nyota turned her attention to the buffet table behind her. But her ears were pricked.

"Sartel was elevated to the position of Provost during last year's Academy honors," Sarek said then. "Your cousin sends his greetings."

"And I have been commissioned as first officer of Starfleet's new flagship," Spock replied, with a heat Nyota well remembered. "Please, convey my congratulations to my cousin."

Silence again, into which Amanda puffed a sigh and moved past Nyota to her husband. "_Eit'jae_, Sarek." From the corner of her eye, Nyota saw Amanda draw two fingers over her husband's hand in a gesture of unmistakable intimacy. "He is our son."

After another excruciating silence, T'Prek spoke. "Commander Spock," she said, "before we depart I wish to view the..." She made a show of not knowing the correct term "..._tash-svitan _ of this ship."

"The bridge," Spock supplied. "I would be honored to show you, Doctor T'Prek."

"Thank you," she said, but then added, "perhaps you should ask permission now, before your _superior_ officer retires for the night?"

It was a dig, barbed like an arrow so that most of the damage was done on the way out.

Spock bristled. "It will be sufficient to confer with Captain Pike in the morning," he said, but Nyota heard the thread of anger in his voice clear as a bell. No doubt T'Prek heard it too, and counted it a victory.

Nyota turned, expecting Sarek to jump down the insolent woman's throat, but he said nothing and she found her own anger rising instead.

"Ah, food," Amanda said, breaking the tension with a false jollity that couldn't hide her own pain. "What do you have there, Lieutenant?"

Nyota looked down at the few canapés she'd put onto her plate, unsure what any of them were – her attention had been fixed elsewhere, and even now she found her gaze drawn to Spock's tight lipped expression and his distant eyes. "Mushroom, I think," she said, popping one into her mouth. "Or maybe—"

There was a dramatic intake of breath and she saw both the Vulcan women turning their heads away, hauteur spreading across their angular features.

Amanda winced and Sarek looked entirely blank.

It was only then, with crumbs on her fingertips, that she remembered the Vulcan taboo about touching food with your hands. "Oh I'm so sorry," she blurted, dusting her fingers on her skirt – then stopping, in case that was worse.

Silence.

Nothing to ease her discomfort. She wanted the floor to open up and swallow her whole.

Then, into the silence, Spock said, "Do you not think, Father, that it is an especially illogical taboo? There is no reason, given modern standards of hygiene, why food should not be handled in this way – and it is certainly more efficient."

Nyota looked at him in surprise, catching Amanda's slight smile from the corner of her eye. He moved to her side and lifted a canapé with two fingers, examining it. "There is a Terran expression, Father, with which you are, perhaps, familiar." He popped the canapé into his mouth, chewed, swallowed, and said, "_Si fueris Romae, Romano vivitomore_." His gaze swept to T'Prek. "On Earth, Doctor, it is considered an insult not to live as those around you live."

With a nod to his mother, and half a glance at Nyota, he turned and walked away.

"_T'var'eth!_" T'Prek hissed the insult beneath her breath, loud enough for Spock to hear, but he didn't break his stride.

Nyota felt like cheering.

***

Only thirty years of practice kept Amanda Grayson from giving full vent to her chaotic human emotions and stalking out of the Ambassadorial reception. But she made sure Sarek knew how she felt before she turned her back on the social-climbing hangers-on and headed toward the quietest corner she could find.

Dutifully, her husband followed.

"You are upset," he said as he drew close.

"Yes I am." She turned to face him, keeping her voice low and her expression as calm as propriety demanded. "He's our son, Sarek. How could you let them treat him like that?"

Sarek lifted an eyebrow. "I believe he defended himself admirably."

"And would it kill you to defend him yourself, for once?"

"I doubt it would endanger my life."

"Don't play semantics with me, Sarek." She drew closer, let him see the extent of her anger. "You know what I mean."

He considered his answer. "This is a subject we have discussed many times; my opinion on the matter has not changed. Spock must defend himself, or forever stand in my shadow. I do not believe that would be a satisfactory outcome for either of us."

It _was_ a subject they'd discussed, frequently, over the years. And he knew she agreed with him – to a point. However, "And you couldn't congratulate him on his commission either, could you? You had to bring up that po-faced Sartel!"

"Sartel's accomplishment is noteworthy."

"So is Spock's!" She drew a breath, composed herself, and added, "You can't forgive him, can you?"

Sarek was silent.

"If he'd made a different choice," she said, "if he'd chosen the Science Academy and _kolinahr_, if he'd purged all his emotions – as if that's even possible! – _I _would still have been proud of him. _I _would still have loved him."

"Now is not the time to—"

"Oh, then when?" She took his hand and felt him recoil from the unwanted mental contact. Too bad. "He'll be gone for five years, Sarek. Maybe he'll never come back. Is this how you would say farewell?"

Sarek pulled his hand from hers, severing the link. "You know that I cherish our son, but I cannot—" He took a breath, struggling with something. "His choice to join Starfleet was based on an emotional response to a minor insult, it was not rational. _That_ failing, I cannot forgive."

"I see." She drew herself up, hurt and taking care that he saw it. "His choice was very human, Sarek. Why must you always reject what there is of me in him?"

"I do not—"

But she couldn't bear another denial, because the truth was clear and they both saw it, so she turned and walked away.

This time she did leave, and let the gossips be damned.

***

Nyota glanced both ways down the corridor as she left the mess hall, caught a glimpse of blue disappearing around a corner, and began to run. She tried not to think about what she was doing – and especially not why.

When she rounded the corner she saw him stalking toward the turbolifts with long ground-eating strides, and she called out, "Commander!"

He stopped dead, as if he'd slammed into a wall. After a moment, he turned around and watched as she hurried toward him. "Lieutenant?"

"I just wanted…" She was slightly out of breath, and smiled an apology. "Sorry, I just wanted to say thanks – for back there."

"No thanks are required," he said, hands retreating behind his back. "I am afraid there are those among my father's people who take pleasure in the discomfort of others."

"Your father's people…" The phrase was revealing, but she didn't comment. "Yes, as you say – aggravating."

He gave a little nod. "I was the target. I apologize that you were caught in the crossfire – so to speak."

"Ha!" She snorted her anger. "You've got _nothing_ to apologize for. I can't believe how rude they were." She grimaced. "And I can't believe I forgot about the fork."

"Do not concern yourself," he said, "they were less affronted than they would have you believe."

She smiled. "I kinda thought so."

The corridor was empty, only the gentle hum of the ship filling the air between them, and she was suddenly very aware that they were alone. His gaze had drifted just shy of hers and she found herself studying the dark frame of his lashes, and the way his mouth curled up at the corners, as if his natural inclination was always to smile. She thought of what his mother had told her of his dual nature, and wondered what conflicts and passions he hid behind those guarded, human eyes.

Spock cleared his throat and straightened his shoulders. "You return to the Academy in the morning?"

It took a moment to refocus her thoughts, a swift heat rising into her cheeks. "Yes," she said, "I'm taking a shuttle down at nine."

He was silent, but frowned as if words were balanced on his lips, waiting to fall. In the end he only said, "Then I wish you a safe journey, Lieutenant."

With a nod, he began to walk away.

And she knew, with a sudden certainty, that if he left she would never see him again, would never find the words to apologize for what she'd said to him that night.

"I haven't seen the bridge." It tumbled out, unbidden.

Spock turned, eying her with caution. "The bridge is off limits to any but the _Enterprise's_ crew and maintenance staff."

"I know, but I was wondering if you'd be able—" She cut herself off, suddenly afraid that he'd think she was asking a favor and exploiting his feelings. "Sorry, I shouldn't have asked."

He hesitated, studying her, then said, "I do not believe it was an inappropriate request."

"I wouldn't want to put you to any trouble."

"I am currently unoccupied."

She smiled, but it was mostly nervous tension. "Okay."

"We can take this lift," he said, indicating one of the turbolifts. He touched a pad and the door swished open. "Unlike for T'Prek," he said as he followed her inside, "I do not require Captain Pike's authority to bring a member of Starfleet to the bridge."

"I'm assuming her tour is off?"

"Unfortunately, yes." His gaze met hers briefly, just long enough for a spark of humor to pass between them. "I believe my duties will require me elsewhere tomorrow morning."

"She'll be disappointed."

He reached past her and pressed a button, the lift accelerating fast. "One can only hope."

Her smile became a grin that only vanished when the turbolift doors slid open to reveal the bridge. She sucked in a breath. "Oh…wow."

It was beautiful. She had no words. A vast, elegant space, full of gleaming technology and the promise of adventure opened up before her, and she stepped out as if into wonderland. Her heart was racing and the grin returned, sharpened by ambition. She wanted this so much it hurt.

"This," Spock said from behind her, "is the communications station."

She turned and ran her eye over the console. _I know how to do this_, she thought as she drew closer, trailing a fingertip over the screen. _This is my place_.

"What about you?" she asked, glancing up and finding him watching her intently. "Where's the First Officer's station?"

He gestured to the side. "I will also be the Chief Science Officer," he said, "and that will be my station."

She closed her eyes and took a breath, getting control of her galloping feelings. "I envy you," she said at last, letting out a long sigh. "This is everything I want."

There was no reply, and when she opened her eyes she found that he was at his station, touching something on the screen. There was a flicker behind her and Spock said, "Look."

Turning, she saw the world laid out at her feet; he'd opened the view screen and the blue-green crescent of Earth shimmered before them. She'd seen it before, of course, but that didn't dim the world's splendor. "Beautiful," she whispered, stepping forward and letting the sight fill her vision. "Thank you."

Again, no answer, but he crossed the bridge to stand at her side and she turned to look at him. His gaze was fixed ahead, but she could tell his focus was on her – she could feel it.

"I owe you an apology," she said at last, screwing up her courage until it stuck. "I was— I said some things that night which I regret."

His shoulders straightened, she could see the tension clench in his jaw. "I believe the events of that evening are best forgotten by both parties."

"Yes," she said, though there was an emptiness in the word that seemed to linger inside her chest. "Perhaps that's best…"

He glanced at her with an uncertain frown. "_You_, I think, would wish to forget."

And she didn't know how to answer. Forget his anger, her outrage? Yes, for sure. Forget the fire in his eyes, the heat in his voice, the emotions slipping through his fingers? She wasn't sure it was possible.

She itched to touch his arm, to make contact so she could understand what was going on, but his hands were firmly clasped behind his back and his expression was unreadable. What he felt for her now, she couldn't tell.

But what _she_ felt for him…?

If pressed, she'd have described it as an overwhelming desire to know him better, to pull him apart and understand the intricacies of that complex and fascinating mind. The duality of him intrigued her, all her preconceptions overturned by a briefly sketched man of profound contradictions. Half Vulcan, half human. And always, she realized, defined by his difference.

She looked at him, at those dark impenetrable eyes, and for the first time felt that it might mean something to have reached such a man, to have spanned the dichotomy that defined him and touched the soul within. For the first time, she began to feel something like regret.

His gaze deepened, brow creasing into a wary frown. "I can not—"

But his words were drowned by the sudden blare of claxons, the ship going to red alert. Spock was moving before she'd drawn breath, darting back to his workstation. "The fire suppression systems have been activated on decks eleven and twelve."

"Deck twelve is the mess hall and guest quarters…"

"Yes," he said, bringing up more data on his screen. "We must begin immediate evacuation."

Unsure what else to do, Nyota ran to the communications console and performed a quick sweep for life signs. "Most people are still at the reception," she said, "some in their quarters, engineering— Oh."

"Lieutenant?" It was a terse command, a tone she'd never heard him use before. She was ashamed by the little thrill it sent shooting down her spine.

"There's someone in the observation lounge on deck eleven, sir. It's the section reporting the fire." She drilled down into the data. "They're not moving. Respiration is poor, pulse weak; possibly smoke inhalation?"

"Most likely. Lieutenant, order immediate evacuation through docking gate Delta. Alert the yard authorities and request their assistance with fire suppression and search and rescue. Have a medical team standing by."

"Aye, sir." She gave the order, sending the requests for assistance even as she spoke over the ship's internal comms. Her pulse raced but her hands didn't shake; she felt nothing but focused and alive.

Leaving his station, Spock strode toward the turbolift. "I must ensure the safety of the Captain and the Vulcan delegation."

"Commander?"

He stopped, turning. "Yes?"

"That person on deck eleven? They won't last long enough for search and rescue to find them if they're already oxygen deprived."

He frowned. "My duty must lie with—"

"I can go," she said. "I can find them."

He looked at her for a heartbeat, then nodded. "So ordered, Lieutenant."

10. _Vitehvar-tor – v._ to endanger; imperil

The evacuation was already in progress by the time Spock reached the mess hall, Captain Pike having, naturally, taken command.

But his face tightened as Spock approached, and he gave a terse nod toward a cluster of Vulcans on the other side of the corridor – one of whom was his father.

Spock approached the group, seeing disquiet in their faces. "Father…?"

"Your mother is missing," he said, lips in a tight line. "She left the reception early and I have not been able to locate her. She is not in our quarters."

Spock felt a surge of fear, but rode the wave and said, "It is possible that she is in the observation lounge on deck eleven. Lieutenant Uhura is on her way to that location."

"I should not have—" His father cut himself off, taking a breath. Around them the claxons wailed and Spock heard the thud of booted feet as a fire team came over from the yards. "She left in anger," Sarek said. "I should not have permitted her to go."

"I do not believe Mother has ever required, nor asked, for your permission to do anything."

His father made a soft, somewhat un-Vulcan, sound in the back of his throat. "If she has come to harm…"

"Sarek!"

Spock spun around, unable to control the sudden flare of relief at the sight of his mother running toward them.

Sarek pushed past him, reaching for her hands as she drew close, and they stood for a moment, forehead touching forehead. Spock found himself staring; he had never witnessed such a public display of affection from his father. It left him strangely shaken.

Then his mother lifted her gaze and smiled. "I'm sorry if I worried you, _ashalik_. I went walking and got lost."

Spock glanced past her, down the length of the corridor. It was empty. "Did Lieutenant Uhura find you?"

"No." His mother's face fell. "No, I haven't seen her."

The fear returned, sharp and clear. He examined it briefly, understood all it implied about his feelings for the lieutenant, then put it aside. "You were not in the forward observation lounge on deck eleven?"

She shook her head. "No, I was just walking and then I heard the sirens and came back as fast as I could." His father, Spock noted with a small corner of his mind, took her hand again.

"You must evacuate the ship, now," Spock said, indicating the Starfleet officers rounding up the last of the delegation.

"And you?" said his father.

"I will join you as soon as I am able."

Turning away, he found Captain Pike. "Sir, permission to take a search team to deck eleven. There are two people there, one injured."

"Go," Pike growled. "The sooner we clear the ship, the sooner I can find out what the hell happened."

With a nod, Spock was moving.

***

She could smell the smoke halfway down the corridor, acrid and catching in her throat. Ahead, the doors to the observation lounge were closed, and she could see ghostly fingers of grey seeping beneath and between them.

Cautiously, Nyota approached and put her hand to the door. It was warm, but not hot enough to indicate that the fire was right behind it. She placed her ear against it and listened. Nothing.

Glancing back down the empty corridor, she considered her options – there was really only one. She stepped to the side, flat against the corridor's wall, and pressed the pad to open the door, ducking into a crouch as she did so.

The doors opened and a ball of black smoke rolled out into the corridor.

Instantly, her eyes started stinging and she swiped at them, pressing her other hand over her mouth and nose, then – keeping low – she headed into the lounge.

Smoke hung like thunderclouds across the ceiling, the air choking. Nyota started coughing, even this close to the ground, and peered into the smoky gloom.

"Hello!" she called. "Can you hear me?"

There was no answer, but she could make out an electrical fizz coming from the far side of the room and made her way towards the noise. The lights must have shorted out, because it was dark, and she quickly found herself disoriented. Pausing, she turned and could just make out the light from the doorway. She used it to keep her bearings.

She'd done this before, in simulations. She knew what to do.

"Hello!" she called. Then again, in Vulcan.

Still no answer.

Ahead, through the smoke, she saw flames. Not huge, the heat was bearable, but sparking and dangerous; an electrical fire. That would explain the smoke – something plastic was smoldering, the casing of one of the consoles perhaps?

And then she heard it, a soft moan of pain.

She darted forward, hit her shin on something sharp, and fell forward with a curse. Coughing, ignoring the pain, she stumbled back to her feet and kept going, ears sharp.

It was closer now, more distinct. A weak cough followed, then, "_Gul-tor_…"

_Help._

Bracing her hand against the floor, Nyota coughed again, so hard she had to struggle for air – each breath was catching in her lungs now, her eyes streaming. She swiped at them, looking around, searching for the sound.

From behind a bulky shape – a chair? – she saw a hand. Struggling for breath, Nyota scrambled closer and saw a woman sprawled on the floor, her face and hands burned. It was T'Prek.

She put her cheek to the woman's lips, waiting for a breath against her skin. It came, barely, on the edge of a wheezing cough. There was no time to check for further injuries – if she didn't get her out of there right away it would be too late, so she slipped her hands under T'Prek's shoulders and began to drag her over the floor.

She didn't get far.

Vulcans, she belatedly remembered, were more muscular than humans. And damn heavy!

Cursing, she crawled over T'Prek until she was crouched at her side, and hauled the woman up into a sitting position. T'Prek's head lolled, she was barely conscious. Nyota ducked her head under the Vulcan's arm, grabbing her wrist, and maneuvered her weight until she could get her feet underneath and push up into a low crouch, T'Prek slung over her shoulder.

She was coughing so hard now that every breath was choking. But she could see the light of the corridor ahead and knew that she could make it. With slow, deliberate steps she carried T'Prek toward the exit, holding her breath in case the next coughing fit made her drop the woman. Her head began to swim, graying at the edges.

Two steps beyond the door, breath exploded from her lungs and she sank to her knees, dropping T'Prek none too gently onto the floor.

Her chest burned and she fell to all fours, heaving and choking as she tried to suck in the clean air. But breath wouldn't come and stars sparked in front of her eyes.

Dimly, she heard footsteps running, but all she could see was a narrowing point on the floor between her hands and all she could think was _Don't pass out. Don't pass out._

And then there was a hand on her shoulder and someone was pressing something cool against her mouth and nose. Oxygen. She breathed, coughed, choked, and breathed again. The mask was held firm as she was eased upright and helped to rest against a bulkhead. She closed her eyes and let her head sink back.

"Try to breathe normally."

There was a rush of activity all around her, calm voices giving orders, the comforting hum and hiss of technology.

As her faintness receded, she reached up to take the oxygen mask and her fingers closed over a warm hand. She opened her eyes.

Spock half knelt before her, holding the mask to her face; he didn't look away when she met his gaze, nor move his hand from beneath her own.

A fierce flash of gratitude filled her mind and he wasn't sure if it was her own, or his.

And then the medic was there, taking the mask and pulling their hands apart, and she winced as a shot went into her neck – then _breathed_, deep, for the first time in forever – and Spock was getting to his feet, making room for the medics, backing away. And whatever they'd given her was acting too fast because her mind was slipping and she wanted to tell him, she wanted to say...

Darkness.

***

"Commander?"

The query came from behind him, jolting his attention from the medical team wheeling T'Prek and Uhura toward the turbolifts.

Spock turned around and saw a smoke-streaked crewman standing in the doorway to the lounge. "Fire's out, sir," he said, "but there's something you need to see."

With a not entirely irrational sense of foreboding, Spock followed the crewman into the fire-damaged room. The ceiling was sticky and smoke-black, the air heavy with the stench of burned plastics; the place must have been unbearable when Uhura had entered.

A vivid image flashed into his head and he repressed it with a firm hand, focusing on the matter before him.

Picking his way through the remains of the lounge, the crewman spoke over his shoulder. "Looks like it started in one of the data terminals," he said, approaching the area of greatest damage and lifting something up. "We found this attached to the console."

It was charred, wires dangling, and almost unrecognizable. Almost. Spock felt a shard of anger slip through his grasp and he clenched his jaw to keep it contained. "It appears to be a Vulcan communication device," he said. "It is possible that Doctor T'Prek was attempting to patch into _Enterprise's_ comms systems to access her own communication network."

The crewman barked a laugh. "She was trying to hack us? These systems aren't even operational yet!"

"It is one theory," Spock said, dissembling. In truth, he could see no other explanation, and the act perfectly fitted the sense of entitlement prevalent among many members of the Science Academy. However, Captain Pike would not thank him for being less than circumspect – given the delicacy of the situation. "All the facts are not yet known," he said. "Take the device to the Captain and inform him that I shall join him shortly."

The crewman left and Spock found himself momentarily alone in the charred observation lounge.

He was grateful for the brief solitude and, inappropriate as it was, took the opportunity to examine a persistent and distracting memory; her hand on his, her skin as cool as he remembered, and her grasp strong. But her mind...?

He could hardly trust his own judgment in the matter, but surely he could not have mistaken what he sensed when her hand closed over his; warmth, radiating toward him in waves. Enough to drown him.

Yet the question remained, what did it _mean_?

He did not dare answer.

***

The doctor insisted on keeping Nyota in the medical bay over night, depriving her of her last night aboard the _Enterprise_. She could smell the smoke in her hair, on her skin, and just wanted to soak forever in a shower. A real shower, with water. And sweet-scented soap.

They'd given her an Academy t-shirt and pants, instead of a medical gown – thank God for small mercies – and she lay on her narrow bed with one leg rolled up over the nasty cut she'd got on her shin. The blue synth-skin would have it healed in a day or so, but meanwhile it was painful. According to the doc, she was lucky not to have shaved off a splinter of bone.

T'Prek was elsewhere, but would recover. Her Vulcan physiology had saved her, apparently, although when Nyota had asked about it, the doc had winked and said something cryptic about not being able to save her skin twice in one day. What that meant, Nyota didn't have the energy to find out.

She was tired, her throat was still sore, and although they'd taken her off the oxygen she still felt light headed and a little breathless. Her parents had called earlier, her mother insisting she come home for a couple of days; Nyota had gently refused, on the grounds of finals and the fact that Starfleet officers didn't go running to their parents every time they scraped a knee. But it had been nice to see her face and hear her concern, and it made her think again of what it would mean to be gone for five years…

The PADD was still on the bed next to her, and she jumped when it beeped. Half expecting her mother again, she idly picked it up and smiled when she saw the transmission ID. Gaila.

She opened the link, her voice still smoke-scarred. "Hey, you."

Gaila's lips pressed together, tight, then wobbled. "Oh, Nyota…"

It seemed an overreaction, even from Gaila. "Hey, it's okay, I'm fine."

Gaila wiped her eyes, sniffed, then cocked her head in surprise. "Are you in sick bay?"

"Isn't that why you called?"

"No." Her lips wobbled again, but she managed to say, "What happened?"

"Nothing, doesn't matter. Gaila, what's wrong?"

She blinked, wiped at her eyes again. "Jim—"

"I knew it!" She held the PADD closer to her face. "Didn't I tell you, Gaila? Jim Kirk should come with a health warning! I told—"

"No," Gaila snapped, "it's not that. God, I _wish_ it was that."

There was something about her tone that settled like a cold weight in Nyota's chest. "Is he okay? He hasn't—?"

"Nyota, shut up, will you? Just listen." Gaila took a deep breath, real fear in her eyes. "I've done something really stupid. Jim wanted— It was just a joke, right? Just a prank, you know what he's like."

She knew exactly what he was like, but resolutely resisted the urge to comment.

"We'd been working on virus protection, and Jim wanted to see if he could get around the department's firewall – you know, just to see if he could – so he created this little animated gif, just a guy dancing." She laughed, but it quickly faded and her voice dropped. "Anyway, long story short, he wanted me to email it around my class, to get it into the secure system and see how far it spread. And I thought it would be funny, but the thing is, when people opened the attachment, it crashed the whole system. I mean the _whole_ system. And now…" Tears threatened again and she sniffed, struggling to get the words out. "Now I've got a disciplinary, and Captain Podhar says…she says I might not… It was so _stupid_!" She dissolved into tears.

"Tell them it was Kirk," Nyota said. "Gaila, tell them he made it."

She sniffed. "He's already told them."

"And?"

"And I'm the one who compromised the secure system…" She sobbed again. "What if I'm thrown out, what if I can't graduate? Nyota…"

Her fingers gripped the PADD so hard she thought she might crush it. "They won't. They won't do that…"

Gaila looked up quickly; someone had come into her room. "I have to go."

"Is that Kirk?"

"I'll talk to you later."

"Is that Jim Kirk? Kirk! You make sure you take the rap, you make—" But Gaila cut the connection and Nyota threw down the PADD in disgust. "Sonofabitch!"

"Lieutenant?"

With a start, she looked up to find Spock standing in the doorway, one eyebrow raised. Her heart jumped. "Commander…! Sorry, I was— Sorry."

He paused, then said, "I came to see if you were recovered."

"I'm fine," she said, coughing as if to disprove the point, her anger making her breathe too hard and fast.

His gaze darted to the PADD, then back to her face. She could see the calculations going on behind his eyes. "You appear unsettled…"

"I'm fine, it's just—" She took a breath, controlling both her breathing and her emotions. "Just some bad news from a friend of mine, that's all."

He was grave. Once, she might have thought him uninterested, or judgmental, but now she realized he was just uncomfortable and didn't know what to do or say.

"My friend, Gaila—"

His chin lifted, recognition sparking in his eyes.

"Ah," she said. "You've heard. Of course you've heard, it's your department."

Spock nodded. "Captain Podhar contacted me last night. The prank has caused considerable damage to the department's systems. The captain was unimpressed by your friend's conduct."

"Yeah…" Nyota sighed. "I can't believe she was so stupid."

He walked further into the room, not toward her but toward the window that looked out into the starry black. "Cadet Kirk has admitted to the creation of the virus." He paused, then said, "It was a virus of deviously adept design; a single error caused the system to crash. Without that mistake, I believe he would have circumvented our firewall unobserved."

Nyota smiled. "Unfortunately, Kirk's a genius level ass."

"Indeed," Spock said, a slight curl to the corner of his mouth. Then his shoulders straightened, hands clasping tight behind his back, and after a brief hesitation he said, "I understand that Cadet Gaila has a personal relationship with Kirk?"

Nyota was unsure how to respond. "That's hardly an excuse for what she did."

"No," he agreed, staring straight ahead. "But it is, perhaps, a mitigating circumstance; such emotional entanglements often lead to poor judgment."

She could guess the path of his thoughts; emotional entanglements were dangerous and best avoided. His own experience had taught him that much. With a sigh, she said, "There's a chance she won't graduate, isn't there?"

"There is a chance," Spock admitted, still gazing into the void. "Captain Podhar was extremely angry."

Nyota closed her eyes and let her head sink back against the wall, a knot of tears bunching in her throat. She would not cry in front of Spock, but, oh, _Gaila_… What the hell had she been thinking? And what was Kirk playing at? A computer virus? Since when were computer viruses his thing? It didn't make any damn sense.

"You are tired," Spock said. "I shall leave you to rest."

She opened her eyes. He was still standing at the window, but now he was watching her with an unreadable expression that she wanted to parse like a complex sentence.

"I would wish you luck in your future career," he said, "if I thought it required. But you have been an exceptional student and I am certain that chance will play no part in your inevitable success." He paused, as if uncertain how to continue. "Instead, I shall simply wish you fair winds and a following sea."

She smiled, touched by his confidence, and melancholy at the finality of it all. "Thank you."

After a hesitation, he said, "Goodbye, Lieutenant."

"Goodbye, Commander."

He walked to the door and, with a serious parting look, was gone.

Nyota sighed. Even amid her worry for Gaila she found a moment to regret their parting – just when she wanted to know him better, he was closing the door between them forever.

***


	5. Chapter 5

11. _A'rie'mnu – n.(lit.) _passion's mastery; mastery of passion and emotion

She spent the next week recovering and trying to distract Gaila from the upcoming disciplinary hearing. It wasn't easy. She'd never seen Gaila so sober, and even Kirk looked sheepish on the few times he dared show his face in their room.

Gaila remained as loyal to him as ever, but Nyota suspected that Kirk's golden reputation had been irretrievably tarnished in her eyes – which was no bad thing. Jim Kirk was dangerous property and even Nyota found him difficult to refuse – as evinced when he cornered her in the cafeteria and asked her to crew for him in the infamous _Kobayashi __Maru_ simulation.

Despite not having forgiven him for what he'd done to Gaila, she found herself accepting; where Kirk led people couldn't help but followed. Besides, she was curious to see what the notorious command test was all about.

As it turned out, it was all about fear. And death. And failure.

Though they knew it was a simulation, they came out shaken and somber. All accept Kirk, who came out furious and demanded, instantly, the chance to take the test again.

He was given two weeks to prepare.

At the end of the first week, Gaila was summoned to Captain Podhar's office.

"This is it," she said, neatly pressed and gazing at herself in the mirror. "This is the crossroads."

Nyota watched from her bed, sitting nervously on its edge. "Are you sure you don't want me to come with you? I could wait outside."

"No." Gaila lifted her chin, straightened her shoulders. "I'm a big girl, Nyota. It was my mistake and I'll face the consequences alone."

"Call me, then, as soon as you're out."

Gaila turned away from the mirror and looked at her. "You'll be the first."

They didn't hug, it wasn't that kind of moment. "Good luck," Nyota said.

"Thank you."

Head high, Gaila walked out of their room and didn't look back.

Too nervous to just sit and wait, Nyota threw her PADD into her bag and headed outside. It was a cool morning and the quad outside their dorms was a sea of red uniforms. Among them she saw Kirk and McCoy, and made her way through the crowds toward them. Kirk, she noted, at least had the good grace to look uncomfortable.

"Hey," he said, as she came to sit down on the wall next to him. "How's Gaila?"

"Nervous," Nyota said. "The meeting was at nine."

Kirk nodded. "I feel bad."

"Good."

He cast her a look. "Are you always this sympathetic?"

"You should see me on a bad day."

McCoy snorted. "They'd been morons to throw her out over this."

"Your point?" Kirk said.

"They're not morons, Jim." He glanced at Nyota. "He's still sore because of the _Kobayashi __Maru_."

"Ah." She looked at Jim, at the tense shoulders and beetled brow. "You do know that no one wins, right? That's the point."

Jim shook his head. "Then it's a stupid point. There's no such thing as a no-win situation, not unless you program it to be a no-win situation. And what's the point of that?"

"The point is to test how you perform in a no-win situation."

"But I don't accept the premise of the test; there are _no_ no-win situations."

"Come on," McCoy objected, "of course there are."

Kirk's frown deepened. "It's like when you're kids and you're playing Starfleet and Klingons, and suddenly this dorky kid's all 'Well my gun's better than all yours and I shoot you and you're all dead.' It's not realistic, it's manipulating reality. And it pisses me off."

Nyota exchanged a look with McCoy. "So why are you taking it again?"

"To see if I can beat the bastards."

"And if you can't?"

"Then I'll take it again..."

McCoy rolled his eyes. "You know, Albert Einstein defined insanity as doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results..."

Jim gave a sudden, dangerous, grin but Nyota didn't hear what he'd been about to say because at that moment someone shouted "Nyota!"

She looked over and saw Gaila flying down the steps of the computer science building. "Nyota!"

The grin plastered across her friend's face was all the answer she needed and as soon as Gaila reached them Nyota hugged her hard. "I knew it," she grinned, even though she hadn't known it at all.

Gaila was bouncing, bubbling with excitement, hugged McCoy and then Kirk – for much longer, and with more kissing. But then she broke off and backed away. "Wait! Gah, I promised them and I already forgot!"

"Promised them what?" Kirk said, half smiling through his puzzled frown.

Gaila lowered her voice. "To be more professional with my personal relationships, not let them influence my behavior and stuff. It's a fair point, I know it is, and I have to try harder. I mean, what if it was a battle situation and I let personal feelings cloud my judgment? What if I let people die just to save one hot guy? That would be terrible."

McCoy grunted. "They'd like us all to be robots, I suppose. Or cold blooded Vulcans."

"Vulcan's aren't—" Nyota cut herself off, feeling vaguely uneasy, as if she were somehow giving herself away. "I heard they feel emotions as deeply as humans, if not more," she finished lamely.

McCoy lifted an eyebrow. "Then that makes it worse."

"Actually," Gaila said, "Commander Spock was more sympathetic than Captain Podhar."

Nyota's heart jolted. "Spock was there?"

"He gave me a bit of a lecture about the danger of 'embarking on emotional relationships with fellow officers,'" she said, making a face, "but then he said that I'd probably learned from what happened and wouldn't make the same mistake twice." She gave Jim a pointed look. "He was right – you can email your own virus next time!"

Kirk just smiled. "So," he said, "we should celebrate. Breakfast at _Joe's_?"

But food was the last thing on Nyota's mind. "I'm going to the library," she said, giving Gaila's arm a squeeze. "I'm so pleased for you," she added, with a smile. "I knew you'd be okay."

Gaila gave her an inquisitive look. "You okay?"

"Sure, why not?" And with a nod to Kirk she headed off across the quad.

But she wasn't going to the library. In truth, she didn't know where she was going, her mind was too full to concentrate. Spock was there, on campus. He was there and he'd convinced Captain Podhar to forgive Gaila her lapse of judgment. She smiled, a warmth spreading out from the centre of her chest; it was an act of compassion and generosity and she realized she was proud of him. She suspected he'd learned something from what had happened – or hadn't happened – between them, and that Gaila had benefitted from his insight.

But it was a bittersweet realization, because it was clear that he wasn't going to make the same mistake twice either. Whatever he might once have felt for her, he was clearly well aware of the dangers emotional entanglement posed and was determined to master the feeling. The realization was less of a relief than she might once have imagined.

She stopped, considering that notion for a moment. There was a tightening in her chest, a flutter in the pit of her stomach. Uneasy, she pushed them both away and carried on walking.

The fact was, Spock was on campus and he hadn't tried to contact her; they'd said their farewells at the fleet yards and the man she'd glimpsed aboard the _Enterprise_, sardonic, complex, and rebellious, was lost to her now. He'd take care that only Commander Spock was on display – cool, rational, and reserved – and she'd never get to know the intriguing mind beneath.

It was a loss she was incapable of quantifying – who knew what lay on the road not travelled? Yet she found herself sighing and it felt a lot like regret.

***

Shortly after Gaila's hearing, Nyota was summoned to Captain Healy's office. Her heart jumped when she got the message because there was only one reason why Healy would want to see her; her thesis had been marked.

By the time she reached Healy's office, she was breathless from sprinting across the campus and had to take a minute to calm her breathing. When she was composed she pressed the door chime and waited for the doors to slide open.

Healy was in her customary armchair near the window, but she was not alone.

Nyota stopped in the threshold, astonished to see Ambassador Sarek rise in a fluid motion from the chair opposite the captain.

"Lieutenant Uhura," he said, with a scant nod of his head.

Healy looked displeased and Nyota wracked her mind for a reason. Surely the Ambassador hadn't come to complain about the fork debacle?

"The Ambassador would like a few words," Healy said, casting a flat look at Sarek. It had all the impact of rain hammering on a duck's back. "I'll be back in ten minutes."

With that, and a significant look at Nyota, Healy walked out, closing the door.

The silence she left behind was excruciating, filled only by Sarek's trenchant gaze. Nyota wondered if he was trying to read her mind. Unable to bear the silence, she said, "I hope Doctor T'Prek is recovering well, Ambassador."

"Her progress is satisfactory," Sarek said, his voice clipped and precise. "But I have not come here to discuss her recovery."

His tone was harsh and it struck her how softly spoken Spock was in contrast to his father – she wondered if that, too, was an act of rebellion.

"You can have no doubt, Lieutenant," said Sarek, "why I came here before returning to Vulcan."

Bemused, Nyota said, "Perhaps to see your son...?"

"No." Sarek walked closer, his face forbidding. "Do not dissemble, Lieutenant. I am no fool."

Irritated by his tone, she straightened her back and squared her jaw. "I'm not—"

"It has been brought to my attention that you are involved in a romantic relationship with my son."

She stared. "Excuse me?"

"I do not believe your hearing is deficient, Lieutenant, however lacking you might be in good sense."

His tone piqued a sudden anger. "I'm sorry, Ambassador, I don't see how my relationship with your son is any of your concern."

"Whatever my son might have told you," Sarek said, "a relationship between you is impossible."

Nyota said nothing, refusing to dignify his words with a response.

"It is impossible," Sarek continued, "because Spock is already betrothed to a Vulcan woman; they have been bonded since childhood and in two years will unite in marriage."

It felt like a sucker punch, but Nyota refused to let it show. She refused to give anything away; Vulcans weren't the only ones who could play their cards close to their chest.

Sarek looked at her curiously. "Have you nothing to say on the matter? You see, now, that a relationship between you is impossible."

"I see that you'd like it to be impossible."

He frowned. "Spock is betrothed according to ancient custom. Would you have him abandon one of the most basic tenets of Vulcan culture, excluding himself forever from his own people, simply for the sake of a fleeting human liaison?"

"I wouldn't have him do anything he didn't want! But if you're expecting me to tell him what to do, then think again; your son makes his own choices." She shot him a pointed look. "As you did."

Sarek's brow drew low. "Spock's mixed heritage is precisely the reason why his choices must be more circumspect. If you felt anything for him, you would remind him where his interest lies."

"And if _you_ felt anything for him, you'd let him do what makes him happy."

She saw anger in the tight lines of Sarek's face. "Do not presume to judge my feelings for my son."

"Then don't presume to judge mine!" Nyota sucked in a deep breath, steadying herself. After a pause, she said, "I think, Ambassador, this is a conversation you should have with Spock."

"Be assured that I will." His displeasure was evident. "And be assured, Lieutenant, that he will do his duty to his father and to Vulcan. Given his already precarious position within our society, and the sanctions he would face should he abandon his betrothed, it is the only logical choice."

Nyota inclined her head. "In that case, Ambassador, I wonder what logic brought you all the way here to talk to me?"

Sarek didn't answer, his expression darkening.

She smiled, saccharine sweet. "If you'll excuse me, sir, I'm running late for a class."

In silence she opened the door and stalked out, anger bristling like dry heat across her skin. But amid her fury and distress one thought crept insistently into her mind; Spock was betrothed. He had been duty bound to marry a Vulcan woman since childhood. What a different light _that_ cast over his words!

_I have taken into account the disapprobation of my family, of Vulcan society in general, not to mention the breach of Starfleet regulations. Indeed, in light of so much opposition, I can only consider my pursuit of this relationship to be highly illogical and potentially damaging to my future prospects. Yet I find that I cannot help myself, that I cannot overcome or control this emotion, and so – logically – I have concluded that I must embrace it..._

She walked without seeing where she went, focused entirely inward. Only now did she truly understand what it meant to be a child of two worlds, torn between two cultures and their diverging expectations. Only now did she understand the profound confusion his feelings for her must have caused, and the degree of anguish he must have felt at her rejection. Her heart ached.

And only now, when it was too late, did she understand the nature of her own changing feelings. Admiration, respect, curiosity, fascination… All those she had come to feel for him, yes, but in a mysterious, alchemic reaction they had combined to produce something new and unexpected.

In a sunny corner between the linguistics building and the cafeteria, Nyota Uhura realized she had fallen in love.

12. _Shan'hal'lak__ – n._ (_lit_.) the engulfment; overwhelming emotion, _esp_. love

On a rainy afternoon, a week after Gaila was granted her reprieve, Jim Kirk sat the _Kobayashi __Maru _for the second time.

His ship was destroyed and none of the crew were rescued. Kirk left the simulation with a scowl and a demand to be allowed a third attempt.

He was turned down.

"They're idiots!" he railed later, in the sparse comfort of _Cochrane's_ bar. "Goddamn techie nerds _cannot_ outmaneuver me."

"Hey!" Gaila protested, shoving his arm. "Who are you calling a techie nerd?"

He waved his beer – his fourth – in her direction. "Did you program the damn thing? No. Didn't think so."

"Give me another couple of years and maybe I will," she said, tossing her hair over one shoulder. "Computer genius, remember?"

Kirk smiled, that lightning bright grin that Nyota might have found devastating if she hadn't been so preoccupied by dark, ironic eyes. He knocked his bottle against Gaila's. "As if I could forget..."

"What aren't we forgetting?" McCoy appeared out of nowhere, hands braced on the back of Kirk's chair and raindrops on his hair and shoulders. He snagged the beer from Kirk's hand and took a swig. "God, man, why do you drink this gnat's piss?"

Kirk snatched his beer back. "Buy your own."

Ignoring him, McCoy grabbed a chair and stretched out his legs. "So?" He eyed them all with that world-weary look of his, daring someone to dish the dirt.

Nyota broke first. "Kirk took the test again."

"And?"

"And now he's on his fourth beer and cursing the computer science department."

McCoy shook his head. "I've known dogs who learned faster."

"The bastards won't let me take it again," Kirk growled.

"Because it would be a waste of everyone's time? They may have a point." He took the beer from him again, swallowing another mouthful with a grimace. "Damn, that's bad."

"I said get your own!"

"If this piss-ant excuse for a bar sold anything worth—" He cocked an eyebrow, staring at something over Nyota's shoulder. "Well lookie here, Captain Pike down from on-high."

Turning around, Nyota was surprised to see the Captain – still in his command uniform – making his way through the crowd toward the bar. Then she caught a glimpse of blue in the shadows behind him and found herself riveted to her chair.

Spock.

She felt a dozen things, all at once, and couldn't untangle one from the other: surprise, embarrassment, confusion, hope, fear. Heat. She turned back around and grabbed the neck of her beer bottle, letting the condensation cool her fingers.

He'd looked as uncomfortable as she'd ever seen him, making his way through the raucous crowd with his hands clenched behind his back. She couldn't imagine what he was doing there, in _Cochrane's_ of all places.

"Uh-oh." McCoy arched an eyebrow and straightened in his chair. "Incoming."

Nyota felt the hair on the back of her neck stir and behind her a voice said, "Lieutenant Uhura."

It was Captain Pike.

Unsure if she was relieved or disappointed she turned, getting to her feet. "Captain."

He waved her back to her seat. "We're in a bar, Lieutenant," he said with a smile. Then he nodded across the table. "Kirk."

"Captain."

"Heard you took the _Kobayashi __Maru_ a second time. How'd that work out?"

Jim leaned back in his seat, defensive. "Not as good as the third would, if they'd let me take it."

Pike smiled. "They won't let you take another shot?"

Kirk probably answered, but Nyota wasn't listening. Over Pike's shoulder she saw Spock standing at the bar, nursing a drink he was clearly not drinking, and deliberately not looking at her. She knew it was deliberate because she could see the tension in his shoulders, the self-conscious way he resisted the temptation to look up. Who needed telepathy when you had body language?

She was just wondering how long he'd hold out, when his gaze slid fluidly to her own and for a heartbeat connected. There was no sardonic humor there, no irony, just an intent look that she couldn't fathom; he was as inscrutable as when she'd first known him.

Embarrassed, she looked away and found Captain Pike smiling at her. "I wanted to thank you personally, Lieutenant, for your actions aboard the _Enterprise._"

It took her a moment to catch up. Then, "Oh, anyone would have done the same, sir."

"I hope so," he agreed. "But you were there and my first officer informs me you performed admirably."

She couldn't suppress a smile, albeit an awkward one. "Thank you, sir."

Pike looked at her for a long beat, then nodded to the rest of them. "As you were, Cadets." He flung an amused look at Kirk. "I have my contacts, Jim. I'll see what I can do about getting you that third shot."

"You will?" He almost bolted out of his chair. "Thank you, sir."

Pike fixed him with a look. "You could do worse than studying the _Kelvin_ in preparation."

"Yes, sir," Jim said, flipping from ecstatic to deadly serious in a moment. "I already have."

Pike just nodded his approval and walked back toward the bar.

Nyota watched him go, watched him say something to Spock and watched Spock answer with his gaze fractionally diverted from her own; she was languishing in his peripheral vision and it was driving her crazy. Was he going to ignore her entirely?

"There's Spock," Gaila said, nudging her arm. "Look."

"I know."

"You were his TA, Nyota!" she laughed. "I know he pissed you off, but you can't ignore him entirely. That's rude – even by human standards!"

"I'm not—" The denial died on her lips.

Okay, reality check; was he really ignoring her? Or was he just embarrassed? More importantly, would she ever know which if she didn't march over there and find out for herself? Probably not.

Getting to her feet, she abandoned her beer. "I'll just..." She lost the rest of the words, let them slip away as she pushed her way toward the bar.

Act, don't think; she was taking a leaf out of Kirk's book for once.

Spock knew she was approaching, she saw it in the way his gaze kept trying to flick in her direction – his posture stiffened, his lips pressed into a taut line, but his attention never wavered from Captain Pike.

Conversely, her mind was chaotic with all things she couldn't say.

_Thanks so much for helping Gaila out. Did you know your dad came over last week to warn me away from you? Oh, and by the way, I just realized I'm a little bit in love with you. Or maybe a lot. _

With so much forbidden, when she came to a stop next to him and his eyes – those serious eyes – met hers at last, Nyota found herself lost for words.

"Hello," she managed after a long pause, acutely aware of Captain Pike standing right there, listening.

"Lieutenant." Spock said no more and she wondered if his mind was as confused as her own, or if he simply had nothing to say.

Music started playing; she'd forgotten there was a band tonight. It was loud and intrusive and she saw a tightening around Spock's eyes. He probably hated it.

"Ah, look," Pike said, dipping his head closer to Spock's to be heard. "Captain Nahil's over there. Think I'll go say hello." He nodded toward Nyota, a glint in his eye. "Lieutenant."

"Sir."

She watched him leave, then returned her attention to Spock. His gaze was now fixed on the band – a motley bunch of juniors with only a tangential grasp of tonality – and there was no humor in his eyes whatsoever. He was very much like the man she'd first known; cold, critical, and unsmiling.

And yet aboard the _Enterprise_…? There, he'd been something else entirely – wry, engaged, and open. _There_, he had made her laugh. She felt a beat of frustration; why had he come here at all, if he was just going to blank her? Searching for something to say – searching for that other Spock – she raised her voice over the music. "I hope your parents got home okay."

He looked at her briefly. "Thank you, my mother returned to Vulcan last week. My father…" Here he paused again, his gaze sliding away again. "I believe he returned several days ago."

Her stomach twisted; Sarek had spoken to him. Of course he had, she could see it in his eyes. Sarek had laid out in bald detail every reason why he should avoid a 'fleeting human liaison', and now Spock was cold and severe and couldn't look at her.

Didn't take a genius to solve that equation.

"Nyota!" Gaila engulfed her in a drunken hug, grinning. Then, to Spock, she said, "Excuse me, sir, do you mind if I steal her away? I want to dance."

"By all means," Spock said with a stiff nod, and before Nyota could say anything else, Gaila was dragging her into the crush near the band.

"You can thank me for saving you later!" she grinned, dancing through the crowd. "But now we need to party!"

In four long years at the Academy, this was possibly Gaila's worst-timed intervention. Nyota pulled her arm free. "I really don't want—" She turned around, looking back to the bar. Spock wasn't there. On her face she felt a cool, damp breeze and just caught sight of the door closing. "Gaila, I've got to go."

Pushing through the crowd and through the music, pounding and discordant, she finally managed to shove open the door and stumble outside. It was raining hard. Water sheeted across stone paths and rattled against windows. Looking in both directions, Nyota didn't see him until she glimpsed movement straight ahead.

In long, angry strides he stalked through the rain, across the grass and toward the graduate residences. She filled her lungs to call after him, but let the breath out on a sigh.

He was too far away, in every sense; his decision was clear.

Behind her the door opened, releasing a puff of music and noise, before banging shut again. A hand touched her rain-wet arm. "Nyota?"

"I'm okay."

Gaila came to stand next to her, peering into the rain. After a moment she said, "Wow, I had no idea."

Nyota flung her a look. "What?"

"Spock," she said with a smile. "When did that happen?"

"Nothing happened." Nyota shook her head. Spock had been swallowed by the rain, a blur of movement in the gray. "It's complicated."

"No kidding." After a pause, Gaila said, "Does he know?"

"Know what?"

She laughed. "About your one-eighty change of heart!"

Nyota was silent, considering her answer. It was a good question. She'd assumed it was pretty obvious, that the softening of her feelings had been evident during their time on the _Enterprise_. But then she remembered how badly he'd read her before and how humiliating the consequences had been. He'd never take that risk again, not without firm evidence. Her heart began to race…

"He got it wrong," she said, thinking aloud. "He got it wrong and he'd never put himself in that position twice. "

"What position?"

Nyota grabbed her arm, everything crystallizing. "I have to go."

Head down against the rain, she started to run across the grass.

***

Confusion.

It battered his mind like the cold rain against his face. A human would have understood her darting looks and uneasy posture, would have been able to decipher the unspoken language of her body. A Vulcan would have never had to try.

But him…?

He took the steps up to the residences three at a time, barely giving the automatic doors time to open before he stalked inside. His room was on the fifth floor and he took the stairs because he didn't want to stop moving. It helped, this exertion. It helped him control his frustration.

When he reached his floor he slowed. Even though it was quiet he did not wish his discomposure to be witnessed, so he walked at a reasonable pace down the length of the corridor.

A young lieutenant, one he didn't recognize, was passing in the opposite direction. His eyebrows rose. "Wet tonight, Commander?"

"Apparently so." He could feel the rain trickling through his hair, his clothes soaked and clinging to his skin. It was an extremely unpleasant sensation.

When he reached his door he pressed his palm against the pad, the first time he'd stopped walking since leaving the bar. He was breathing hard, though more from the effort of controlling his feelings than from the physical exertion.

If he hadn't known better, he might have suspected the onset of blood fever.

The door slid open and he stepped inside. It was dark and cold, he'd not been here for over two months and the environmental settings had reset. "Set temperature to thirty-four degrees Celsius." He left the room dark, however. Orange city lights bled in through the window, flaring in the raindrops to create a passing illusion of home.

It had been too long since he had stood beneath the Vulcan sun and felt its heat seep into his bones. Perhaps that was why he felt so conflicted? Here, in this cold, damp, and human place it was difficult to hold his dual nature in balance.

Feeling the heat begin to rise from the floor, he headed into the bathroom, stripping off his soaked blue shirt and leaving only the black undershirt. He rubbed a towel over his face and hair, and was just returning to the living area when the door chimed.

Towel in one hand, he stopped dead.

An irrational desire to simply not answer was quickly followed by an equally irrational hope that Uhura stood on the other side of the door.

He dismissed both thoughts, took a moment to compose himself, and touched the door control.

In defiance of logic, if not hope, Uhura _was_ standing outside his quarters. "Hi," she said, offering a smile he was too dazed to interpret. "Can I come in?"

In silence, he stepped aside and she walked past him, into his quarters. The door closed. In the diffuse light he could see her features in outline, and her eyes – beautiful by any objective standard – shone. She smiled again, a different and equally mystifying smile, and said, "You're wet."

He had no idea how to respond to that other than to say, "It is raining."

"I know." She lifted a hand and smoothed it over her face, wiping away the rain.

His eyes traced the path of her fingers and he could not look away. That tension he had always sensed between them was painfully sharp; he had no idea what it meant, dared not even guess. He did not know what she wanted, or why she was there, and the doubt was paralyzing.

Uhura also appeared uneasy, her expression flitting between a smile and a frown, and her gaze alighting on nothing for more than a moment. He had the feeling she was waiting for him to do or say something, but what that might be was beyond his ability to discern. Instead, and out of acute frustration, he said, "Why have you come here?"

She blinked, he saw a flash of surprise – or offence? – and then she smiled again. Yet another, different smile. "I, um, wanted to thank you for what you did for Gaila – standing up for her to Captain Podhar? – it was kind and I..." She trailed off, looked down at the floor, and on the edge of a laugh said, "No. No, I'm sorry, that's not why I came here."

Time passed – a few moments, lengthened into hours by anxious anticipation. He slowed his breathing, slowed his heartbeat, seeking composure in that simple discipline. "Forgive me," he said, when the silence became unbearable, "I do not understand why you are here."

Uhura nodded. "I know." Then she took a breath and looked up; her expression was determined. "I've come here because I want to know you better."

Curious – refusing to be more than that – he cocked his head. "In what regard?"

She laughed, but only briefly. "In every regard."

Her words provoked a physical sensation that it took a moment to quell and he closed his eyes; the human habit of talking around, instead of to, the point had never been more exasperating! "Please speak plainly, Uhura."

"Nyota," she said in a low voice. "Call me Nyota."

He looked at her, watched her tip her head to one side. Raindrops had caught in her hair and they glittered when she moved. Like stars. "Nyota," he said, watching with interest the way her eyes widened. "Please speak plainly, _Nyota_."

She shook her head and said, "You're not making this easy, you know."

"Perhaps if I understood what—?"

She touched his hand, two fingers tracing a leisurely path from his wrist to his fingertips. It was deliberate, knowing, and extremely erotic. Her expression was serious. "Do you understand now?"

He looked down at their hands, watched as her fingers curled around his and her thumb stroked across his knuckles. "I believe," he said, with a decidedly human rasp, "that comprehension is dawning."

Uhura – _Nyota_ – smiled. "Dawning?"

He lifted their hands, pressed his palm against hers and let their fingers thread together. "Rapidly."

"_El'ru'esta_," she said, naming the traditional embrace. She looked him in the eye, fearless as always. "Do you know what I'm thinking?"

"I believe I can guess," he breathed. "But I would not instigate a mind link without your permission; it is an extremely...intimate act."

She looked at him, drawing closer so that their joined hands were trapped between them. "Like this?" she said, and brushed her lips across his.

His body reacted; he recognized it as a release of oxytocin, serotonin, and adrenaline, the somatosensory cortex working overtime, and in past encounters had been fully able to regulate this physiological response to such stimuli. This time, however, there was heat, a charge, radiating out from an undefined point that might, fancifully, be called his heart. His pulse raced, his eyes closed, and as she pulled back he moved forward and kissed her again. Their joined hands came apart and her fingers traced a cool path along the line of his jaw, his own hand closing on her shoulder, his thumb at the base of her throat; beneath his fingertip he could feel her steady pulse.

Rising desire, emotional and physical, threatened to elude his control and he was forced to break the kiss. Heart racing, he rested his forehead against hers and concentrated on maintaining a barrier between their minds.

"Too much?" she murmured.

"No." He was breathing hard. "Yes." Another breath. "One moment."

"Is this…?" Her hand touched his face. "Is this new for you?"

He looked at her, saw only curiosity and concern in her eyes, and that provoked another ripple of warmth. "You mean physical intimacy?"

"It's okay if it is."

"Your reassurance is comforting," he said, both amused and touched, "but unnecessary. I _am_ twenty-six years of age."

He could see her mind working and imagined she was counting backward in multiples of seven. Lifting an eyebrow he said, "Fourteen is the answer to your question."

There was a sparkle in her eyes, mischievous and delighted, and she kissed him again. His mind went blank, like a hard reboot, and he struggled to keep his pounding heart under proper regulation. And that _was_ new; he had never before experienced this confluence of physical and emotional desire, and controlling them both was proving a challenge.

This time Nyota pulled back, studying his face. He had a feeling she had seen more than he would have liked to reveal. "Let's talk for a while," she said, taking his hand once more. "I don't think we've done nearly enough of that recently."

He nodded, unsure for which he was more grateful – the chance to gather his scattered control, or the fact that she had recognized his difficulty and given him the space he needed.

***

Curling one leg beneath her, Nyota sat facing him on the small sofa. His chest rose and fell fast, his hair as charmingly disheveled as when he'd first opened the door, and his eyes heated.

She wanted to kiss him again, to feel that slow burn. There was no ambiguity when they touched, no danger of mistranslation, but she knew they both needed a moment to restore some sense of control. And talking was an art they certainly needed to practice.

"If I hadn't come here tonight," she said, when it didn't seem as if he'd speak, "would you have come to me? Or would you have left and gone back to the _Enterprise_?"

"I cannot say with certainty," he confessed, studying her. Once she'd thought that look acerbic, but now she realized he was simply trying to understand her. Or, perhaps, himself. "I admit that my intention in returning to the Academy was, in part, to try and assess whether your opinion of me had undergone a significant change since..." He drew in a breath and Nyota could feel his discomfort in waves.

She brushed a light touch across his hand. "Let's not think about that night."

"The memory is unpleasant," he agreed, "but instructive. For me, at least."

"Instructive?" She shook her head, ashamed to remember the way she'd dismissed his feelings. "Yes, I expect you learned a lot about human ignorance and prejudice."

"You demonstrated neither quality," he said, with force. "It was my misunderstanding that caused the offense, my failure to comprehend how my actions were perceived. I..." He hesitated. "There are aspects of human behavior I find baffling, despite my heritage and my time spent at the Academy. I knew this about myself, yet failed to apply that knowledge; I assumed I understood your feelings, but did not stop to ascertain if I was correct until the blunder had been made."

"I think," she said, "you were simply being human. We often go on gut feeling, on intuition. And you _are_ half human."

His lips took on an ironic tilt. "Yet, clearly I do not possess the capacity for human intuition."

She gave the matter some thought, not hurrying to respond. There had been many silences between them, but this time she didn't feel the need to fill the space with words.

Looking back, she realized that he may have been right all along – there had always been a chemistry between them, a tension. She'd experienced it as antagonism, he'd experienced it as attraction, but she suspected that it had really been an admixture of the two. "I think," she said, "that your intuition worked better than I'd have liked to admit." She smiled and cocked her head. "You were always at a disadvantage, you know, after you accused me of sounding like a Romulan."

One corner of his mouth curled. "I did not accuse you of anything; you were eavesdropping on a private conversation."

"Eavesdropping? I'm sure half the bar heard."

"That is unlikely, given the level of noise."

"Well then, you're accusing me of being unreasonable."

He looked briefly alarmed. "I—"

She silenced him with a finger to his lips. "I _was_ being unreasonable. That's my point. I think you knew me better than I knew myself."

"That is unlikely," he said, and she noticed the way his breathing had become shallow as his intent gaze fixed on the hand she was lowering from his mouth.

"Humans," she said, her own pulse racing, "are prone to self-deception. Too ruled by our emotional responses, I suppose."

"There are times," he said, reaching out and taking her hand, "when I envy you that freedom."

"Freedom?" She threaded her fingers through his. "We're slaves to our passions, aren't we?"

"While Vulcans are slaves to logic." He leaned in, running a finger down the side of her cheek, his eyes dark and liquid. "There are times when I hardly know what I am."

Her heart swelled and she pressed her palm against his face. "You're you. Unique."

"Singular," he said, with that ironic smile. "Alone."

She shook her head and drew him closer. "Not alone," she said against his lips. "Not now."

He returned the kiss, slow and controlled, the hand on her face moving to curl behind her neck. His touch was warm, fevered, and she let her hand stray to his shoulder, slipping down his arm. His body was slender, but densely muscled and hard beneath her fingers. She broke the kiss, needing a breath, and let her forehead rest against his. It was a deliberate Vulcan gesture.

"Nyota." Her name was a whisper, a gentle breath. "I want..."

Her hand found a flash of heated skin beneath the hem of his shirt and when she ran her fingers along it he growled something unrepeatable in Vulcan. She smiled against his lips, delighting in his momentary loss of control. "What is it you want?"

"To show you, to let you see..." He kissed her again, deeper and with less control, then pulled back with obvious effort and touched two fingers to her temple. "May I?"

She knew what he was asking. "I'll feel what you feel?"

"Only what I choose to share."

She nodded. "And will you feel what I feel?"

"If you wish it."

"Only what I choose to share?"

"I would never seek more."

"But you could; it's a question of trust."

He looked into her eyes, searching. "All intimacy is a question of trust."

"But this is different," she said. "Isn't it?"

He hesitated and then said, "I do not know, I have never before attempted _kash-naf._"

"But you said—"

"I meant only physical intimacy."

There was a shadow in his eyes, a tension that spoke of regret, or perhaps shame, and she remembered what Sarek had told her about the Vulcan woman to whom he'd been bonded as a child. She touched his face. "Then it will be new for us both."

He gave a slight nod, his gaze turning inward as he lifted his fingers back to her temple. Nyota closed her eyes and listened to the rain rattle against the windows. His touch was warm and at first that was all she could feel, but then gradually she became aware not only of his warm fingertips against her face but also of her cool skin beneath his touch. She felt both her own steady pulse and his racing heartbeat, her own sense of wonder and his fierce longing.

She opened her eyes and in his midnight gaze she saw herself reflected.

_Let me show you_.

And then he kissed her again, opening his mind and letting her feel everything he could not say. Every touch, every breath had meaning, their slow exploration of mind and body needing no words. They shed their clothes to the sound of rain against the windows and lay down upon the bed beneath the city's golden light, discovering their differences and similarities with curiosity and delight.

When her teeth grazed his collarbone she felt his flare of desire; when he kissed the small of her back, she knew he melted with her. And when their bodies joined and moved together, her pleasure and his were woven so tight she could hardly tell one from the other.

It was like nothing she could have imagined.

And then there was his cautious presence in her mind, looking but not touching. She had no doubt he was right to be wary, the force of his psyche was astonishing and strange. Yet the alien architecture of his mindscape was strewn with familiar structures: affection, doubt, amusement, fear, pleasure, hurt. Love. She understood the narrow confines in which such feelings were permitted to run, like deep-cut streams across ochre sands, and when they threatened to overflow – when the intensity of their physical connection overwhelmed him – she let his flooding feelings flow through her.

She became the vessel into which he poured his passions. In the aftermath of his release, a white-hot detonation that triggered her own fierce climax, the dam broke and the deluge threatened to wash her away. But she held on, to him and to her sense of self, and soon the torrent receded until she felt only his weight and his warm breath against her neck.

The mind link dissipated and the loss was devastating. She clung to him and they lay like that, entwined, for minutes that ran together like raindrops on the window.

Eventually the feeling ebbed and he lifted his head to look at her. His control was still raw and she could plainly see the wonder in his eyes. "Fascinating," he breathed.

She shook her head, threading her fingers into his sweat-damp hair. "The words you're looking for are mind blowing."

He kissed her with a rare smile and murmured, "I defer to the preeminent linguist among us."

"You'd better," she yawned, suddenly and intensely drowsy.

He rolled onto his back, pulling her with him until her head was pillowed on his shoulder. "Extended telepathic contact is exhausting," he said, already drifting away. "We should...must..."

"Sleep."

Outside the rain still fell, pattering against the window and flaring gold in the city's lights.

***

Later, Nyota woke. Hot.

She sat up and it took a moment to orientate herself in the unfamiliar room. It was still dark out and the lights shone in through uncovered windows, turning everything in the room a dusky gold.

At her side, Spock slept.

How strange.

How strange that her day had ended here, with him. How right, though, and how perfect.

She lay her hand on his back, his skin hotter than her own despite the fact that sweat slicked her body. It was too hot, too hot to sleep, and she slipped out of his bed and padded to the environmental controls.

Thirty-four degrees?

She adjusted it down to a more reasonable twenty-three and slipped back into bed, waiting to cool down.

Spock slept on, still and quiet.

The next time she surfaced, warm and comfortable beneath the covers, he was standing in the shadows by the window. "What are you doing?"

He walked back to the bed and in the dark she could see that familiar ironic gleam in his eyes. "The environmental settings appear to have malfunctioned and plunged the room into polar temperatures."

She smiled. "Polar?"

"A slight hyperbole, perhaps."

"It was thirty-four degrees in here!"

"It _was_. It is now," he glanced back toward the controls, "twenty-three degrees. I might add that it is probably warmer outside. In the rain."

She laughed and slipped her arms around his neck. To her touch, he was still feverishly warm. "I'm sorry," she said, kissing his lips. "Are you cold?"

"Suddenly less so."

She smiled against his mouth and kissed him again. "Now?"

"Warmer still…"

The next kiss was longer, his arms coming around her and holding her hard against him. When she could breathe again she whispered, "And now…?"

But he was lowering her back onto the bed, skin sliding across skin, and there was heat aplenty between them.

Later, when she woke again, he was sleeping next to her in Academy sweats with the cover pulled up to his nose. Pre-dawn light filtered grey through the windows, heralding another rainy day, and in the washed-out light his hair and lashes drew stark lines against is pale skin. He looked cold, but if she touched him she knew he would feel hot.

Though the differences between them were more profound than anything physical, these little things served to remind her who and what he was. Singular, he'd called himself, and she didn't doubt that the _double entendre_ was intentional. But to her he was neither solitary nor strange, he was simply unique. She hoped he'd never change.

She sat up and stretched. It was still early, but they'd crashed out early and she wasn't tired. What she was, however, was hungry. Slipping out of bed she saw that he'd laid her uniform neatly on a nearby chair – which was sweet, and funny, and nothing any guy she'd ever slept with would have done! She was still sensitized to his touch and didn't want to feel the harshness of her uniform against her skin, so instead, she opened one of his drawers, dug out an old Academy t-shirt, and pulled it over her head.

Padding quietly to the environmental controls she adjusted the temperature to a compromising twenty-nine and slipped out of the bedroom.

There was a little kitchenette to one side, but sadly the cupboard was bare. He'd been gone for weeks and there was nothing in the kitchen but a packet of _theris-masu_. She opened it, sniffed the dried leaves, and recoiled from the bitter aroma.

"It is an acquired taste," Spock said from the bedroom doorway.

She jumped, almost dropping the packet of tea. "I thought you were asleep!"

"I was." He smiled that barely-there smile of his, letting his eyes drift down to the shirt she was wearing. "It suits you better than the _Iowa Nighthawks_."

It took her a moment to remember. Then she laughed. "Spock! Were you jealous of Jim Kirk?"

"Certainly not," he said, nothing but humor in his eyes. "I counted eleven logical reasons why you might be wearing his shirt that morning, eight of which were entirely innocent."

"Where did drinking too much tequila and passing out in his room come on that list?"

"I believe that would be number twelve."

She smiled, crossing the room until she was close enough to kiss him. "And what about _this_ shirt? Can you think of any innocent explanations?"

His hand was already on the bare skin at the top of her thigh. "None whatsoever."

She kissed him, slow and sweet, and— Her stomach growled. Loudly.

Spock pulled back to look at her. "You are hungry."

"Starving."

"And I am a poor host, with nothing to offer but stale Vulcan tea."

"I didn't come here for the tea," she said, kissing him quickly then pulling out of his arms. "But if you let me keep the shirt, I'll buy you breakfast…"

His lips quirked in half a smile. "I believe that would be a fair exchange."

***

Mubin's restaurant was just as he remembered it, though colored by a heightened emotional state that was new and unexpected.

Nyota – she would always be Nyota to him now – had given him something unexpected. Freedom. It was a startling sensation, but as they sat close together at a small table at the back of the restaurant he realized that he was not discomfited by her proximity. He felt no shame, no fear of giving himself away as something less than Vulcan.

His father, he thought, would have been appalled.

She touched his hand, a brief gesture to draw his attention. "You're miles away."

"I was thinking," he said, "of my home." Tangentially, it was correct.

Nyota sipped her _chai_, watching him through the curling steam. After a moment she said, "Do you miss it?"

"Yes," he said, "and no." He slid her a look and said, "It does not rain on Vulcan."

She smiled. "You miss the weather?"

"The heat," he admitted, glancing out at the cold, gray morning. "And the mountains. Vulcan has a harsh majesty that, perhaps, only its people can appreciate. One would not call it a beautiful world."

"I'd love to see it someday."

He met her warm gaze and held it. "I would be honored to show you."

After a moment she looked away and said, "I guess your father wouldn't be too happy about that."

"Happiness has never been his priority."

"You know what I mean."

After a pause he said, "When I chose Starfleet, I turned my back on many things – my obligation to T'Pring was one of them. My father cannot accept that fact."

She did not react, beyond taking another sip of tea. "T'Pring is your…?"

"We are bonded," he said, holding her gaze. "I have not seen her since my fourteenth year."

From the way her eyes slightly widened, he knew she understood the significance of that date.

"She was not—" Even with Nyota, such matters were difficult to discuss. He took a breath. "There is a mental bond. In our case it is not strong, but nevertheless I sense that she would prefer a wholly Vulcan mate."

"I see." She looked angry, and he realized it was on his behalf; he had seen similar expressions on his mother's face.

"I share her desire to break our bond," he reassured her. "In two years I will enter—" He cleared his throat, lowering his voice. "I would be required to marry, and to return to Vulcan and live there for a year after our marriage. The _Enterprise's_ mission makes that impossible."

Her expression turned arch. "Even if you wanted to marry her?"

"Which I do not."

She gave a curt nod. "Then your father will just have to suck it up."

That conjured a peculiar image. "Pardon?"

Her smile flashed bright for a moment. "It means put up with it – he'll have to just put up with your decision."

"Yes."

"In his defense," she said, giving it obvious thought, "I do think he had your best interest at heart – I mean, what he considers to be your best interest."

He remained unconvinced, but was reluctant to debate the point. Instead he said, "Then perhaps he will be comforted by the knowledge that his interference has undoubtedly served my best interest." Nyota's confused frown provoked a smile as he said, "His attempt to dissuade me from pursuing a relationship with you was, in fact, the reason I decided to persist."

"Really?" Her delight was evident. "How come?"

Unsure how much to reveal, he simply said, "Mother had persuaded him that you were in danger of falling victim to my charms, and he believed I should be reminded of my duties." He smiled slightly. "You may imagine that my mother's assurance had quite the opposite effect."

"That's why you came back to the Academy?"

"I had reason to hope. Although, I might add, I was far from confident; my mother has always overestimated the efficacy of my charms."

"As every mother should." Covering his hand she ran her thumb over his knuckles and he didn't pull away, despite the public setting. "But in this case she was absolutely right. I think it was _si fueris Romae, Romano vivitomore_ that did it."

"I was not aware it had any such impact."

"Then I'm glad your mother was paying attention."

She slipped her hand from his and picked up her mug, tossing her loose hair over one shoulder. She still wore his old shirt and he found it peculiarly erotic to trace the lines of her firm body beneath the casual fall of the fabric. He wondered if she wore it to arouse such thoughts in him, or whether the sensation of wearing his clothing was equally stimulating. Perhaps both applied.

"How about you?" she asked, after another sip of tea. "How did this all start for you?"

It was a complex question and one he could not adequately answer. He hardly knew how to explain it himself. Instead of attempting to pinpoint a time or place, he simply said, "You are familiar with the expression _shan'hal'lak_?"

She thought for a moment, then said, "Engulfment? Emotional engulfment." Then she smiled, a wide and beautiful expression. "Really? That's how it was for you?"

"And continues to be."

His words had a visible impact and for a moment he was afraid she might kiss him. Right there, in public.

Fortunately she managed to master her emotion and instead simply leaned forward to whisper in his ear. "Let's get out of here. Right now."

To that, he had no objection. Nor did he object when she held his hand as they ran through the rain back to his rooms, or even when she pulled him into the elevator and pressed her rain-wet lips to his all the way from the first to the fifth floor.

He felt no shame, he felt no sense of failure.

Through her eyes, he saw himself unbroken and at peace. He was not half human nor half Vulcan, but wholly and completely himself. Unique and valued. It was a happiness he had never imagined. He kissed her again, and when she smiled he saw the future in her eyes, glittering bright as the distant stars.

***

Three weeks later, Gaila opened an email and Jim Kirk pulled off the miraculous salvation of every crewman aboard the _Kobayashi Maru_.

His infamy lasted a total of three days and nine hours.

By the end of the fourth day Spock's world had ended and a new story had begun…

~The End~

Thanks so much for reading! I really hope you've enjoyed the story. :)


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